Aya
by Palaras Andhek
Summary: A story expounding on the complicated relationship between F!Hawke & Isabela, meant to fill in the gaps between the scant amount of conversation in-game. Will begin at the end of Act 2 and continue through the end of Act 3.
1. Chapter 1

**Well, this is my first Dragon Age fic, inspired by my second playthrough of DA2. During my second playthrough my mage F!Hawke romanced Isabela. Over the course of this romance, I really grew to like Isabela as a character, and thought she developed really well by the end of the story. Though her progression with Hawke seemed a bit rushed to me, and of course some fill-in-the-blank moments popped into my head. This was the first, inspired by the codex entry that appeared for Isabela in act 3, referencing an intense conversation between her and Hawke after the Qunari debacle. Here's my take on it... I hope you like it : ) If you do, I will certainly be inspired to continue...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything, blah, blah, blah (you all know how it goes).**

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Isabela was a woman who rarely conceded to her own nerves. Furthermore, this begrudging concession would only ever occur in the off chance that she might actually feel nervous – a frazzling emotional state that was rarer still for the pirate captain. Yet on this particular evening, only a few days after she'd watched the newly lauded "Champion" of Kirkwall, Aya Hawke, duel the Arishok for _her_ life, she could do nothing to ward off her nerves.

Sighing, she asked the barman for another glass of whiskey and ran a less than steady hand through her dark hair. All the while, as she drank fervently and brooded over her conflicted emotions, she did all she could to keep her face hidden. The idea of being inconspicuous was not necessarily something she was accustomed to – quite the opposite, actually – as a regular in the Hanged Man she'd made a name for herself. However, noting the paucity of patrons lining the bar and seated across tables, she couldn't help but feel partially responsible and… uncharacteristically guilty.

Since the Qunari insurrection just a few days prior, the city had been in shambles. Homes and businesses had been burned, innocent people slain mercilessly, and in the absence of the precious Viscount, Kirkwall's government had been in an absolute frenzy. At the helm of this political chaos stood the stark-raving Knight-Commander Meredith and her Templar cronies. The streets were full of madness now; and where there wasn't madness, there was grief and desperation, so much so that it made Isabela's skin crawl in an unfortunately empathetic manner.

She knew that all of this destruction, or most of it, could have been averted if she'd only chosen to return the relic to the Qunari in the first place. Why she hadn't was pretty obvious – to her at least. She'd spent years tracking the damned thing, and had muddled through so many death threats to get to it. Maybe in the back of her mind she'd begun to associate the blasted book with her own survival – who knew? Isabela could never be certain what exactly drove her own greed, and had concluded long ago that it was best, for her own sake, not to dwell on it. She knew old habits die hard, and that was a good enough reason for her.

Of course, as the liquor mingled with her subconscious guilt and shame, she couldn't help but wonder if fear had played a part in her running, as well. And not fear for her own life – no, she could take care of herself – but fear for the changes she felt inside of her. Fear for the fact that, in the past three years or so, there was a group of people, or even just one person in particular that she'd grown to care entirely too much about.

First there was Varric, her strikingly handsome dwarven confidante. Almost from the first time they'd met, right here in the Hanged Man, they'd been great friends. In all honesty, Isabela had first been attracted by his appearance; but after several pints of ale and many good laughs, she'd found something of a brother in Varric. Sure, they could talk about sex, drink, and speak all kinds of foul and excitement, but when it came down to it, he was more like a partner in crime than anything else.

There was Merrill, the sweet, misunderstood elf. Isabela knew that many had despised Merrill, or feared her for her blood magic, but even that was used with the purest of intentions. Isabela had developed a soft spot for the woman the first time she'd ever gotten red in the face over one of the pirate's vulgar remarks and asked her sheepishly to explain. Since then she'd taken Merrill under her wing like a helpless kitten.

There was Anders, the aggravatingly self-righteous mage and Fenris, his brooding rival. Isabela loved to watch these two argue endlessly, and loved to fan the flames even more. She herself had a neutral and tacit stance on their argument of choice, but found that by offhandedly throwing in her two cents, it was very easy to get them riled. So she would often pester them, and instigate, and all the while laugh and carry on sarcastically, her amusement sated.

Oddly enough, she could even count Aveline among these people, too. The guard captain was almost her polar opposite, a difference which led to many harsh and amusing arguments. Nonetheless, she'd grown to really enjoy fighting with Aveline, and she knew the fiery red-head felt the same. Aveline's warmth had been affirmed the moment she had protested the Arishok taking Isabela. Of course, she'd claimed it was just because _she_ wanted to be the one to kick Isabela's ass, but the pirate knew otherwise. In some very unorthodox way, they were friends.

Lastly, there was the person who had come to mean the most to Isabela since her arrival in Kirkwall: Hawke. Over the years, she'd realized there were two very different sides to the apostate, both which she thoroughly enjoyed in their own way. First and foremost, there was the Hawke she'd met in the Hanged Man all those years ago, the Hawke whose name seemed to be on the lips of every prominent person in Lowtown – the Champion.

Hawke the Champion was a virtuous and extremely powerful mage, constantly determined to do the right thing, the moral thing. The Champion wasn't exactly the sort of person Isabela would associate with on a regular basis, but for some reason, she accepted the pirate for who she was and respected her as a companion. And Isabela… well, she couldn't help but admire this Hawke despite how their moral compasses differed. After all, the Champion was a strong, independent woman who always chose to defend the underdog. She was humble and never condescending, and Isabela appreciated that.

But then there was the other side of Hawke, the side only those closest to her saw – Aya. Not a champion, or an apostate even – just a woman who wanted to protect the ones she cared for and live a free and peaceful life. Aya was soft and compassionate, and despite her grandiose public persona, she was not without her flaws. Isabela had seen Aya be stubborn, snarky, and uncertain. She could say outlandish things at the entirely wrong time, make light of serious situations, and could hold her liquor about half as well as the pirate – which was far more than most could say. Isabela always knew that when she was with Aya, she'd end the night with a smile on her face.

Aya was the one that always came into the Hanged Man looking for laughter and just a little bit of mischief. Aya was the one that Isabela had spent a few nights with, drunken and careless and blissful in bed. Aya was the one who had shared her feelings with Isabela, and had somehow managed to coax the pirate's past kindly from her. Aya was the one who made Isabela's heart beat in strange ways. But… she was also the one who had caused Isabela to subject herself to danger, to bring the relic to the Arishok, regardless of what her punishment might be.

As the face of her friend, lover… whatever she was floated through her mind, Isabela felt a sudden sinking feeling. Most of her guilt and shame could be derived from Aya's shining emerald eyes, soft dirty blonde hair, and quirky, half-cocked smile. That thought troubled her most of all, and caused her to quickly down the rest of her whiskey in one ravenous gulp.

Deep down, Isabela knew the true source of her nerves and she knew she couldn't ignore that source for much longer. She only hoped that when their confrontation occurred, she would be facing the Champion and _not_ Aya. Because the Champion would argue – she would raise her voice and reprimand the pirate, and Isabela could easily yell right back. But Aya wouldn't argue. She would speak with her emotions, her disappointment and sadness, and Isabela wasn't so sure she'd be able refute those feelings…

She ruminated over these thoughts for many minutes, lost in the dizzying swirl that cascaded through her mind. She kept her head slightly bowed and stared deeply into her glass of liquor, barely noticing as a shadow drew over her.

"Isabela." The pirate lifted her head, her lips pursing instantly. She knew that sweet, lilting voice all too well. The only question was, who would it belong to tonight? The Champion or Aya?

The answer was quite apparent as she turned to gaze not upon cold, hard anger, but stinging disappointment. _Shit,_ she thought, taking a large gulp of her drink.

"Hawke…" Aya took a seat on the stool next to Isabela, resting her hands calmly upon the bar and piercing her friend with an unwavering stare. She felt anger, yes, but not as much as she should have. She was proud of Isabela for doing the right thing _in the end_, but could not ignore the greedy mistakes she'd made in the first place. Worst of all, she couldn't forget the feeling of complete dejection she'd felt when she'd read the letter of betrayal Isabela had left after she'd run. That was the thing that had hurt most of all.

"Look," Isabela said with a deep sigh, ready to mask her anxiety with aggravated defense. "I suppose you want to talk about what happened – why wouldn't you? I'm not entirely sure what I can say except for 'sorry,' but-" Aya cut her off before she could continue.

"I need you to do something for me right now. You owe it to me."

"What," Isabela asked, closing her eyes for a brief moment, willing this conversation to be over as soon as possible.

"Look at me." Isabela was surprised by the request, though not entirely. Aya had proven recently that she knew Isabela too well. How she'd come to know her – she was unsure. Perhaps it was the way Aya looked at her, so unlike any other. She never simply looked upon her facade, never looked through her – Aya always seemed to look within Isabela. And for some reason the pirate could not fathom, some reason that drove her crazy, she was always inclined to allow Aya to see inside of her.

So, fearful of what she might discover, Isabela complied. When she turned into the penetrating stare of those glittering green eyes, she immediately wished she'd never stopped running to Ostwick. Aya was so disappointed… so hurt, and Isabela absolutely could not stand it.

"I've done a lot of thinking… about what made you run with the relic."

"What have you come up with," Isabela asked, her composure just barely cracked, but cracked enough that Aya would notice, she was sure.

"Different things," Hawke shrugged. "Some reasons I sincerely hope aren't true, some that are too probable to ignore. But I've settled on panic."

"Panic," Isabela scoffed, lifting her glass eagerly to her lips.

"Yeah, panic. Because I asked you to do the right thing, and you led me to believe you would. I think maybe you really wanted to, deep down. And maybe you wanted to do it for yourself, maybe for me," Isabela nearly protested the thought, but Aya continued on anyhow, knowing her pirate too well. "It doesn't really matter who you wanted to do it for, not now anyway. What matters is that when that relic was in your hands, finally, you got scared. Because you knew you should do the right thing, you knew you were supposed to. You knew _I _was counting on you. But to give that damn book to the Qunari would've been completely against everything you've ever stood for. And you're much too independent to ever be a people pleaser so… you panicked. You panicked at the thought of losing yourself to better intentions, and you ran."

Isabela had to contain a cringe as she listened to Aya voice all the reasons she'd felt on the inside. She couldn't let Hawke know the truth though.

"I ran because that's what I do, Hawke. I'm a liar and a thief and I'm terribly greedy. It's who I am and I bet you it always will be."

"Bullshit," Aya said, just a bit more aggressively than usual. "That's a poor defense, Isabela. A poor _excuse._ If you were such a wicked liar you'd be able to come up with something a little less transparent than that." Aya's lips curled into a half grin, knowing this argument was already won.

"You think you know me so well-"

"Face it: I do. And now everybody else does, too. Because if any of the claims you'd just made were true, you never would've come back." A stony silence erupted between them, and Isabela truly found herself resenting Hawke. As much as she cared for her, and as happy as she was that she hadn't completely given up on her, Isabela _needed_ to resent her.

"Well then, good for you _Champion_. You've figured me out!" Isabela quickly bolted out of her seat with a bitter laugh. She would have made her way out the door right then and there, had Hawke not stopped her. As soon as Aya's warm hand touched Isabela's skin, a shiver went down her spine. Her flesh seemed to tingle where it met with the mage's. She couldn't walk away from such a feeling, no matter how much she might try to deny it.

"We're not done, Isabela. I need you to tell me something."

"What," Isabela said forcefully, not daring to turn around and meet Aya's gaze another time.

"What made you turn back?"

"Well, I didn't want to miss all the fun-"

"Please, Isabela," Hawke's voice was laced in dull pain, and for some reason, that truly hurt the pirate. "Tell me the truth."

They both knew the truth, and Isabela was sure of it. The fact that Hawke was so insistent on making her say it out loud rattled her. It made her frustrated beyond belief, to be honest. Why should she admit something to Hawke that she often refused to even admit to herself?

"I know it's not a what… it's a who," Aya whispered. "Was it for the Qunari? The people of Kirkwall?"

As an automatic response, a coping mechanism she'd developed over the years, Isabela's temper rose in an attempt to mask the aching in her heart. She knew anger was easy, but sadness… _love_ would be the hardest thing in the world.

And so, with unwanted venom in her words, she turned on her heel and spat, "I didn't do it for them. I did it for you. It was always about you."

Isabela strode out of the Hanged Man then with a heavy heart, wishing she could stay, wishing she could apologize and simply… swallow her pride like a normal person. Wishing she could tell Aya what she wanted to hear, but knowing she couldn't. Instead she ran again, this time telling herself she should never return.

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**Comments, please?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed/favorited... I certainly appreciate it - it makes me smile : ) Hopefully you enjoy chapter two just as much!**

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Running away had always been easy for her – second nature, really, cultivated through years of thievery and calculated emotional deflection. And as a pirate, running had been all too convenient. In the face of tragedy, guilt, fear, or any combination of the three, it was simple enough just to submit herself to the soft, undulating rhythm of the sea. She would be swept away in that constant ebb and flow, the constant movement that reminded her that being still for too long would never be pleasant. And as sure as the sun setting over the endless blue horizon of the ocean, her troubles would drip away, eroded by the sting of salty sea air.

But she had spent six long years as a captain without a ship, a fact that she had bitterly ruminated over for the past three. To her, it was both an unfortunate reality and an ironic metaphor for the unexpected turn her life had taken since she'd arrived in Kirkwall. _The city was… _is_ not the problem, Isabela,_ she thought to herself. She scoffed , digging the toe of her boot into the dirt. This voice in her head – this righteous, sweetly sardonic voice – had been a habitual companion to her since leaving. But in truth, it was not her own.

"Shut up, Hawke," she muttered to herself. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she could hear the apostate's gentle, child-like laughter ringing out as clearly as the city sounds surrounding her. Unable to control herself, a begrudging smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and for a moment, her chest fluttered. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head just slightly.

She was more conflicted than she had ever been in her life. On one hand, she felt a tremendous amount of relief coursing through her as she meandered around the docks overlooking the City of Chains. For three years – years that had seemed far longer than she would ever care to admit – she had been away from here. She'd spent this time on foot, travelling around the Free Marches, stopping in towns and villages whenever possible, getting drunk as often as she could afford.

She'd taken lovers here and there, of course, on fleeting nights in which she'd found herself feeling particularly lonely. But even these sporadic instances of hunger had been almost entirely lackluster, much to her chagrin. Sex could never be entirely disappointing or unpleasant where she was concerned – after all, it was only skin-deep – but as the years had passed outside of Kirkwall, she'd found these skin-deep encounters began to have a more scathing affect on her, emotionally.

She could no longer take pleasure in strangers without, at some point, closing her eyes and seeing those glimmering, emerald eyes searching her. She couldn't help herself. No matter who she was with, she would feel Aya's warm breath grazing her skin, Aya's lips pressed delicately into the nape of her neck, Aya's nails digging into her back… And when that happened, she would call out for the Champion, much to the surprise of whoever she was _actually_ with. But when all was said and done, these strangers never cared whose face she saw or whose name escaped her lips in a heated whisper, just as long as they got what they wanted. And though that never would've bothered her _before_, it bothered her now.

Perhaps this was why she'd spent so many of her nights alone in the past year, toying with the idea of returning to the city, of facing Hawke, but feeling too cowardly to do so. In truth, she'd never ventured very far from Kirkwall, always remaining within four or five days' travel, but none of her former companions knew that. Well, except for Merrill… maybe.

The soft spot she held for the elf had grown too big in the past six years, and since her departure from Kirkwall, she'd written to her frequently. This had probably been a mistake, considering Merrill was quite close with Hawke, as well. But the pirate just couldn't bring herself to abandon the elf entirely. As hard as it was to believe, she knew Merrill looked up to her for one reason or another, in the way a child might look up to an older sibling, and she herself felt fiercely protective over the impish blood mage. So she'd written to her every few weeks, never disclosing her location, but assuring Merrill that she was "close enough" and was well.

Other than her correspondence with Merrill and a few humorously lascivious letters she'd penned to Varric, no one in Kirkwall had seen or heard from her since leaving. She often tried to convince herself that it was "better this way" and that running had been the "right thing" to do, for Aya especially, but deep down she knew this wasn't true. Deep down she knew she was making excuses for herself, to justify her own running, when in fact the only justifiable thing she'd done or felt was regret.

Her true reason for leaving had been the way Hawke looked at her when she thought the rogue wasn't watching. Isabela had caught her staring a few times, out of the corner of her eye, sometimes in battle and others during raucous nights at the Hanged Man. But the last time she'd really caught her staring – the time that had unnerved the pirate the most – had been the last time they'd slept together.

It had been just a few nights before Hawke had fought the Arishok. Isabela, Aya, Varric, Merrill, and, surprisingly, Aveline had gathered in their favorite Lowtown tavern for a few hours of cards and heavy drinking. The Guard-Captain generally didn't join them on such blatantly frivolous evenings, but had just finished a particularly difficult patrol and was in need of some ale. Hawke, as usual, was happy to pay for everyone's drinks, and had the table thoroughly inebriated in just an hour's time.

After quite a bit of gambling and a lot of lost coin (well, not lost on the pirate), a grumbling Aveline offered to walk home an unsteady and terribly giddy Merrill. Varric retired to his suite soon after to put the finishing touches on a story he'd been working on, and Hawke… well, she wasn't in much of a hurry to leave. In fact, it seemed that she had no intentions of going anywhere that evening.

Isabela could only smirk, having no qualms with Aya's forthcoming advances. Drunk or not, the sex was always great, and she'd sincerely grown to enjoy the other woman's company, perhaps more than she should've allowed herself to. They'd run up to the pirate's room soon after Varric had left them, already consumed in a heated tangle of limbs. They succumbed to their passion for a few blissful hours before falling into weary, contented slumber.

When she awoke the next morning, she found Aya at her side, hitched up on her elbow and staring at her with the most curious look upon her face. It was a concentrated blend of wonder, determination, and worst of all, unbridled adoration. They locked eyes, and Isabela could feel the blush quickly rise in her cheeks. Her automatic response, in any other situation, under anyone else's gaze, would have been to roll away and issue a smart, sarcastic remark. But with Aya's beautiful eyes peering into hers, she found she couldn't move. In fact, for the briefest moment, she couldn't even breathe – a reaction she ardently hoped the Champion had not noticed.

Unfortunately, she _had_ noticed, and her brow knitted together just slightly, her lips parting as if she'd had something to say, but had forgotten the words. It was almost unbearable for Isabela, and as soon as she regained some of her composure, she sat up, a little too quickly, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Leaning over to pick up a shirt from the floor, she said, "I've had stalkers watch me in a less invasive manner, Hawke." She'd meant the words to be in jest, but her nerves had placed a more calloused edge on them. She felt Aya scramble off the bed, probably searching for her own clothes, and her chest tightened. _Damnit…_

"Sorry," Hawke sputtered, clearing her throat. "It's just…" her words trailed off. The pirate knew she should've left it at that, but the weight of possible words left hanging in the air made her antsy. Especially when they very well could've been four-letter words.

"Just what," she asked, turning around to face Hawke with a forced, mischievous grin. The mage allowed herself a small, embarrassed smile as she pulled her tunic over her head. She seemed suddenly reluctant to meet Isabela's gaze.

"Nothing… you just look different when you sleep," she mumbled. The pirate cocked an eyebrow, feeling a surprising amount of relief wash over her.

"How so, sweet thing," she asked, feeling her composure come back in full this time. Aya smile broadened as she took a seat on the bed next to Isabela.

"You look, like… there's no walls."

"Walls?" The pirate chuckled lightly, sensing where this was going. She'd heard it before, but wasn't sure how it would make her feel, coming from Aya.

"Yeah… you're not easy to read, you know. It's taken me a long time to get used to. You very rarely say what you're truly feeling, Isabela. Your words might be used to make me think one thing, but what you're _actually_ feeling is entirely different." Isabela suddenly felt Aya's nails drawing lightly over her hand as it sat tensely on her thigh, and she shivered. Instinct told her to move away from the other woman, but against her better judgment, she stayed put. "But when you're sleeping, there's no pretense," she concluded quietly.

Isabela paused, choosing her words carefully. "How do you know that's not a well-crafted ruse?" The words had been harder than she'd intended, but she didn't mind this time.

"_It's not,"_ Aya whispered into her ear, allowing her breath to linger sensually along Isabela's earlobe before abruptly standing to finish dressing. "I should probably get going. I have a meeting with the Viscount this afternoon and it would do me some good to prepare. But," she turned back to Isabela, who sat with a mixture of surprise and aggravation adorning her face, "I might be back later, if everything goes alright."

She never did come back later, and Isabela didn't seek her out either. She wouldn't see Hawke again until the day of the Qunari insurrection, when she showed up at her estate asking for help in finding the relic. She had to wonder… if she'd known then that the situation was so ill-fated how different her actions would've been. As usual though, she shrugged off this thought, feeling it best not to dwell on it.

What she did choose to dwell on, however, and had for so many sleepless nights in the past three years, was the way Aya had looked at her that morning. It was the reason she'd left her in the Hanged Man after the Arishok's defeat, and it was the reason she was now returning to Kirkwall.

"This is pathetic," she mumbled to herself, the ghost of a smile still dancing around her lips. _It's not pathetic,_ the voice in her head chided. _Vulnerable and maddening and painful maybe, but not pathetic. It's love. _

With Aya's voice echoing through her head, the image of her smile flickering through the pirate's mind's eye, she made her way back into the city, deciding it was better not to think.

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Come nightfall, Isabela was sitting in Hawke's bedroom, curled up nervously in a velvet chair she'd dragged before the fire, awaiting Aya's return. When she'd showed up at the estate, her heart pounding in her chest, she truly hoped the Champion wouldn't be home. She would wait for her, yes, but she needed this time, to situate herself in Aya's private sanctum, to draw in a scent so delicate and soft she'd nearly forgotten it.

Bodahn had been his usual ecstatically oblivious self, and had greeted Isabela happily, none the wiser to the circumstances surrounding her departure. He'd informed her that Aya was out helping Aveline with some guard work, and should be back in a few hours. In that time, the pirate tried to make herself at home, but after spending a half hour or so walking through the large, lonesome halls, exploring the rooms, she wondered if Hawke could truly consider this a home anymore.

Aya had bought the house to console her mother. After Carver had left to join the templars, they were both rather solemn, and she thought regaining the Amell estate would put a smile back on her mother's face. Being back in her childhood home _had_ overjoyed Leandra, easing the pain of the losses she'd been dealt in the past few years. Seeing her mother so pleased had helped to raise Aya's spirits, as well. But after Leandra's death… Hawke tried to stay away from the estate as often as possible.

Hawke had once confided that without her mother, the only time she didn't feel lonely in the estate was when Isabela was there with her, a fact that now pained the pirate.

"Andraste's ass, what have I gotten myself into," she asked herself, peering into the fire as she was sure the Champion had a hundred times before. Suddenly, she heard shuffling from downstairs and Bodahn's cheery, booming voice.

"Oh, hello, Messere!" Isabela held her breath. She'd asked Bodahn not to inform Aya of her arrival when she returned home, wanting it to be a surprise. _Yeah, some surprise this'll be… _"How was your evening?"

"Fine." Even from downstairs, the pirate could tell how exhausted and unenthusiastic Hawke sounded. She worried she'd made a mistake in coming here… no, she _knew_ she had. But she also knew that this had to be done. She couldn't keep running. "Did you and Sandal have a good day?"

"Oh, yes…" The little dwarf prattled on for a few minutes, engaging the Champion in small talk. Isabela did like him, but damnit, how she wished he would shut up. The anticipation was killing her. She heard Aya's footfalls on the stairs as she bid Bodahn goodnight, and the rogue shot up nervously. _Be calm, would you? This is ridiculous… some pirate queen you are…_

As the door creaked open Isabela held her breath. Aya didn't notice her at first, as she kept her gaze turned down, tiredly removing the gloves from her hands. But from the corner of her eye, she must've noticed her pirate's presence, because she stopped dead in the doorway, her eyes rounded on Isabela's face.

The pirate wanted to grin smugly, but couldn't. All she could do was stare at the woman before her, as beautiful as she'd been in Isabela's dreams these past three years. Her dirty blond hair was longer now, pulled back from her face sloppily. Her lips were as soft and full as ever, slightly parted now in surprise. And her eyes… those beautiful green eyes shined more deeply than they ever seemed to before, even as they were ringed in newfound lassitude.

The fire cracked and flickered, casting new light on Aya's face, illuminating injuries the pirate had been too distracted to notice just a second before. The apostate's left temple was bruised and swollen, and a moderately sized cut had been etched from her earlobe down her cheek. It also appeared as though she were holding her left arm gingerly, signaling that that too had been injured.

Isabela wanted to tease the mage, to take her to bed and soothe her as she might've done before departing. But she knew now that wouldn't be right, as she was regretting this decision more than ever.

"Hawke." She actually managed a faint smile as she spoke the mage's name. Aya's brow furrowed, and she leaned gently against the doorframe.

"What… what are you doing here," she asked, clearly pained. Of course, this would be the most obvious question on the Champion's mind, but Isabela was unsure how to answer it.

"Travelling was nice, but I missed all the fun Kirkwall had to offer." Anger flared briefly in Aya's eyes before she entered the room completely, keeping the door ajar. She set her staff in the corner and began removing her light, leather armor with blatant difficulty. "I see you've been having plenty of that without me." Isabela couldn't mask the concern that crept into her voice. Hawke merely looked up at her and scoffed, tenderly rubbing her injured arm.

"Do me a favor, will you? It's fine if you just decide to pop back into my life after three years of… doing Maker knows what, but can you spare me your sarcasm? I'd find it hard enough to tolerate without injury, but as you can see," she clutched her left arm and angled her face to display the cut and bruises, "I'm feeling like shit right now." Isabela gulped, knowing she should leave, knowing that she shouldn't dare touch Hawke, but instead decided to aid the mage in removing her armor. She expected Aya to flinch back, but the help seemed somewhat welcome. Though the pirate couldn't ignore the way Hawke stiffened at their brief contact.

"I can manage that," she said, all humor gone from her voice. After all the armor was removed, Hawke sighed deeply and took a seat at the edge of her bed. "Why didn't you go to Anders?"

"Too tired," Hawke muttered, pacing her head in her right hand. "I'll do it tomorrow… mind getting me a salve from the desk? Top left drawer. I should put something on this cut…" Isabela silently complied and retrieved the salve, handing it to Hawke before taking a hesitant seat on the bed beside her. She should speak, she knew, but couldn't find the words just yet.

After a pause, Aya placed the salve on the bed beside her and looked to Isabela. She was angry, disappointed, happy… but above all else, she was exhausted. "So why did you come back… again?"

Before giving it much thought, Isabela spewed the first words that would come to mind. "I guess I missed you too much." Hawke's eyes widened in surprise. The pirate had never been so forthright with her emotions before. "And… everyone else. Sort of. I mean… I missed Merrill and Varric, and even my Big Girl. But…" She turned to look into her champion's eyes. The anger was still present there, of course, but dimming now, though her lips remained pursed.

"Don't tell me you missed me." The words were harsh, and the rogue was surprised by how much they stung.

"I'm not lying. I could, but I owe it to you now to be honest. I _did_ miss you, Aya. And for the past three years I've felt like… like a coward and tremendous ass for running in the first place. I came back because… I at least have to apologize. I'm sorry for leaving you, after everything you did for me. I was an ungrateful bitch." Aya bit her bottom lip, her face scrunching momentarily in pain. It made Isabela wince as she placed a tentative hand on Hawke's shoulder. "I'm going to try and make it up to you, somehow. Whether you want me to or not."

In the silence that followed, Isabela dared not look at Aya in fear that she might find tears streaming down the Champion's cheeks. It seemed all too likely. Hawke was exhausted, injured, and now upset… she was vulnerable, and after all she'd been through, the pirate knew the mage didn't have an easy time with vulnerability. Especially not as someone who was known for wearing her heart on her sleeve.

All she could manage to do was tighten her grip on Aya's shoulder and hope that simple touch might convey some of the emotion she was feeling. As she did so, Hawke caught Isabela's hand in her own, removing it gently from her shoulder and clutching it in her lap. She sighed loudly, releasing some of the tension she carried.

"You shouldn't be afraid to look at me," she whispered, and Isabela lifted her gaze. A sad, tired little smile adorned Aya's lips, and there was conflict in her green eyes. Not knowing what else she should do, and unable to bear that solemn smile, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Hawke's.

The kiss was brief, but made both of them shudder. Warmth spread through Isabela's entire body, setting her nerve endings aflame. Instantly, she hungered for more and wished more than ever that she'd never left. She knew she couldn't be greedy, however. Hawke pulled away, and the pirate didn't press her.

Aya exhaled sharply, hanging her head. She had yet to let go of Isabela's hand though. "I should be furious at you. I want to be." The rogue's heart hammered in her chest, just waiting for Hawke to lash out at her. "But I don't… I don't think…" She closed her eyes and cringed, shaking her head. "I'm so tired."

Isabela smiled slightly and gave her champion's hand a final squeeze. "Then sleep." She planted a soft kiss on Aya's wounded cheek before standing up. "I truly am sorry, Aya. You don't have to forgive me… I just want you to know I'll be around. If you need me, I'll be back at the Hanged Man." Aya nodded and smiled, ready to let the exhaustion wash over her fully. Isabela turned and began walking towards the door, but Hawke stopped her.

"Isabela… thank you. _For coming to me._" Isabela grinned.

"Don't mention it…"

* * *

**A/N: I've been swamped with schoolwork lately, but after seeing the response I've gotten from this story thus far, I will definitely try and update sooner and consistently!**

**Also, in case you'd be interested in knowing, my Hawke is actually named after a song... "Aya," by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. It's a great song... and would make for a good accompaniment while you're reading ; )**


	3. Chapter 3

**Big thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed/favorited/put this story on alert. I think you're all wonderful.**

**AN: Isabela might seem slightly out of character in this chapter, but I do feel it is justified within the context of the situation. Plus, she's back to normal by the end anyhow... So just stick with me on this one. I was dealing with a bit of writer's block in this chapter, but overcame it by the second half. Hope you like it : )**

* * *

"Damnit, Hawke!" Isabela had to wonder how many times she'd uttered those exact words since she'd known Aya. To take the time to count would be a headache in itself; however, if she had to take an educated guess, she would say the answer was well in the hundreds. Had she the time to release her exasperation in this moment, she would've. As it were, her maker forsaken apostate was once _again_ plunging headlong into a mess of coterie thugs, and the pirate would be damned if she wasn't at her side.

_Bloody Hell…_ she thought, expelling a mental sigh her lips didn't have the time to dwell on. Mages weren't supposed to be this reckless – Merrill and Anders certainly weren't. When a fight broke out, they strategically remained on the fringes of battle, casting spells both defensive and offensive from a _safe_ distance. Hawke used to have that kind of self-preservation; but since returning Isabela had noticed that the Champion had mustered up some sort of death wish (at least a tiny one).

When battles erupted, no matter who their adversaries were, Aya was one of the first to jump in among the fray, combating tempered steel and deft arrows with bursts of flame and ice. It was absolutely maddening to her companions – though she was not fighting brainlessly, she was fighting seemingly without tact. More importantly, she was fighting with a flagrant disregard to her own well-being. Aveline had castigated her on more than one occasion, wagging her finger at Hawke in the way a much, much sterner sibling might. Fenris _and_ Anders had both turned their noses up at her after a few heated battles, agreeing (for once) that the way she'd taken to wielding her magic was foolish and dangerous.

Aya reacted to being chastised in different ways. She knew not to push Aveline. When the Guard Captain would lecture her, she would merely accept the rebuke, nodding her head and trying her best to reassure her friend. Isabela found this reaction strange, seeing as how the apostate would scoff at the likes of Anders or Fenris, quick to issue sarcastic remarks in their direction. Even when she herself tried to reprimand Hawke, her Champion would always reply with an annoyingly confident and gorgeous smirk. Aya never joked with Aveline though, at least not when it came to her own safety.

The Champion and the Guard Captain had a special bond that Isabela sometimes found aggravating. After all they'd been through together, they truly viewed each other as family – Aveline assuming the role of big sister while Hawke ceded to the role of little sister. Aya was truly happy to play the part of younger sibling after so many years of being the eldest. She'd made a lot of hard decisions in order to protect Bethany and Carver, and in many ways, felt that she had failed. For once, it was nice to feel that someone was looking over her, as opposed to the other way around.

Isabela was glad that Hawke had acquired some small amount of comfort in the way Aveline protected her. But Andraste, had it ever been hard on the rogue… since she'd returned her Big Girl had refused to cut her _any_ slack when it came to Hawke. She was clear in that she disapproved of any relationship between the pirate and the apostate, and that she thought Isabela was an ungrateful tit for leaving after the Qunari debacle. What Aveline wasn't seeing though, through Isabela's sarcasm and easy-going demeanor, was the immense amount of guilt that she actually felt and the amount of care she had for Aya (more than she often liked to think about).

It seemed though, that in moments like this, moments where the fearless mage was just barely managing to avoid the adept slashing of daggers and the crippling blows of arrows, all with a fierce smile on her face, that the pirate's true concern and care was apt to rear its head. She was at Hawke's back in a moment, raising her blades to cut the throat of a rogue assassin who otherwise would've found his mark in the Champion's spine. Fenris was beside them, cleaving thugs in a blur of shining lyrium, and sweet Merrill, the only _intelligent_ mage participating in this particular fight, was behind them, terrorizing grimy coterie bastards at a reasonable distance.

Hawke finished off the last of their opponents with a crackling burst of lightening. Isabela growled subtly, pulling one of her daggers out of the back of a corpse, and turned to face Aya. Fenris was, as usual, sneering, and Merrill approached them warily, bitterly anticipating some sort of argument. The tiny blood mage knew that Isabela and Hawke had done quite a bit of arguing since Isabela's return. However, the thing she found odd about this arguing, was that Isabela was always on the side of reproach and frustration, whereas Aya was calm and cool, her grin never wavering. The tables had truly turned in the past few years.

Silence burgeoned between the four companions as Hawke sheathed her staff. Fenris was the first to comment.

"You really do want the Templars to take you, don't you, Hawke? You-" Isabela turned up her palm at the elf quickly, cutting him off.

"Thanks, Fenris, but I'd like to handle this," the pirate interjected coldly. Aya bit down on her bottom lip, the corner of her mouth twitching with a smile that was just begging to split over her face. Isabela noticed this immediately, as attuned to the Champion's mannerisms as she was, and narrowed her eyes. "You know, you almost got stabbed in the back this time."

"Key word: 'almost'."

"You… you're an idiot, you know that?" Anger flared up quickly in Isabela. She wasn't necessarily an angry person, not at all. She was always so composed, so mellow; and when she wasn't, she had her sense of humor to quell any traces of negative emotions. However, in the month since she'd returned to Kirkwall, she'd found herself unable to maintain her composure rather often, all thanks to Aya's carelessness and unfounded confidence.

If she wasn't so concerned, she'd probably be quite amused and even turned on by the Champion's new attitude. But she _was_ concerned… very. She was finally able to admit freely to herself that, yes, she did love Aya. She loved the blonde-haired, green-eyed woman in a way that she was not yet able to voice to anyone but herself, and it pained the pirate to see how she would throw herself so carelessly into battle. Deep down, the confident smirk the Champion now wore caused a secret pang of hurt in Isabela's heart, because only she knew the truth behind it.

Aya liked to pretend that she had everyone else's troubles figured out and taken care of, that she was infinitely strong and secure, but she wasn't. Her cocky smirks and ever-amused grins were always forced, at least partially. Her humor and sarcasm were nothing but devices that Hawke clung to in order to placate her own fear and sadness. Isabela knew this because she'd spent most of her adult life crafting the same exact façade – a façade she still leaned on from time to time, but that she had slowly and surely sacrificed for the sake of her relationship with Aya.

The rogue saw through the apostate's guise. During the day, while traipsing all over creation in the name of justice, or at night, cleansing the streets of Lowtown as they were now, Aya was amiable and happy. She was still good for a round of drinks or a game of Wicked Grace at the Hanged Man, much to everyone else's satisfaction. But Isabela knew that when Kirkwall's champion went home every night, she was alone. When she would finally retire to her cold estate after a hard day's work, there was no smiling, no laughter. There was only solemnity and quiet contemplation to accompany her aching and exhausted mind.

Isabela had tried to get Hawke to admit this in the past month, but the damned mage had kept her at a distance. They hadn't spent a single night together, hadn't had sex once since she returned. In fact, they'd only shared a few chaste kisses, despite how flirtatious Aya had been with her. It was maddening. The pirate truly desired to help Hawke, even if that only meant sleeping beside her or, so help her, talking about their emotions. Still, she was only human, and she did have urges.

She was getting tired of being kept at arm's length. At first, she'd acknowledged that she deserved such treatment, after the way she's betrayed Hawke, but now… it was getting a bit ridiculous. Aya had not done a thing to try and hide the way she still felt for Isabela. She'd been forgiving and alluring and all kinds of conflicted in the past month. She'd driven Isabela up a wall with her reckless behaviors in battle, and the pirate had to wonder if she'd done so on purpose.

Was the rogue being punished? Was she being manipulated? Was she being tested? She honestly had no idea, and Hawke's behavior had just about caused her naturally sparse patience to wear completely thin.

"You had my back, Isabela. I knew you would," Hawke said simply, her arrogant smile softening as she registered the strain passing over the pirate's features.

"And what if I hadn't? What if I'd been preoccupied or tied up?"

"Well, then I guess I would be dead." Isabela looked ready to slap the apostate, and Merrill appeared distressed by her comment, as well. Fenris was indifferent, as usual, if not slightly unsettled. "But that wouldn't happen," she quickly amended. "Contrary to popular belief, I actually _do_ have some semblance of self-awareness when in a fight. Enough to keep myself from getting killed, at least. Not that any of you would let that happen, anyway." Fenris threw his hands in the air and stalked off quickly, muttering Tevinter curses and variations of the word "fool".

"Oh, no, that's fine Fenris – you can leave. We're done for the night, anyway. Thanks for asking," Aya called after him dryly, eliciting a brief giggle from Merrill. Isabela was undeterred from her annoyance, however.

"So, _are_ we done for the night, or were you just being snide?" The apostate shrugged nonchalantly.

"We took down quite a few thugs tonight. I'm sure Aveline will be satisfied. So… sure. We're done."

"Good," Isabela said curtly, causing Aya to raise a brow.

"Good? Do you have somewhere to be, Isabela?"

"Yes." Hawke grinned as a mischievous twinkle gleamed in her emerald eyes. Isabela found this look positively irresistible, and she was sure the mage knew it.

"I hope you know that when I say 'somewhere to be' I mean somewhere other than the Hanged Man. Because, let's face it, you're presence there is pretty much a given." The rogue spat out a few mock chuckles before abruptly turning on her heel and grabbing Merrill's hand.

"You're _so_ funny, Hawke… c'mon, Kitten. I'll buy you a drink." Merrill graciously accepted the pirate's hand, but shook her head, nonetheless.

"You know I love to drink with you, Isabela. It's one of my favorite things, even though I'm quite bad at it – compared to you. But I'm feeling so sleepy tonight. I was thinking I'd just go home. I wouldn't be any fun, anyhow." Isabela stopped and pouted, causing the delicate elf to flush with guilt. "Maybe you can buy Hawke a drink!"

Aya's grin softened when the pirate turned to her, her amber eyes full of subtle anticipation and remote expectancy. The Champion had been seemingly avoiding alone time with Isabela in the past few weeks, so it was no surprise when she turned to the elf and said, "I think you've got the right idea tonight, Merrill. I was just going to head home." She then presented Isabela with an apologetic and somewhat… guilty smile. "But if you'd like to buy me a drink tomorrow night, when Merrill and I aren't quite so tired, I'd gladly take you up on it."

"Sure you will, Hawke." Aya's smile quickly dissipated as the anticipation in her pirate's eyes was quelled. She hadn't consciously decided that she was going to avoid any one on one interactions with Isabela… it was just something that happened. The Champion wondered what caused her to so easily dismiss Isabela since she'd returned to Kirkwall. She didn't want to. In fact, what she really wanted to do was forgive the pirate entirely and pick up where they'd left off before the mess with the relic. But that was the problem, wasn't it?

Isabela had betrayed her, left her vulnerable and alone. For all intents and purposes she should _hate_ the damn pirate – and Maker, had she tried. She'd spent three very long years trying to hate Isabela. Her motives for doing so, however, were of a curious nature. She did not want to hate the pirate for all the ways in which she had wronged Hawke. On the contrary, Aya longed to hate Isabela so that she may not care for her… so that she may stop loving her.

She'd failed miserably in this spiteful venture, though the continued efforts of _trying_ in the past few years had left a bitter taste in her mouth. She was unwell before the pirate left – a fact she knew Isabela had been keenly aware of, as the flirtatious, dark-haired rogue had been the one tangible thing she'd been clinging to. Aya knew she never should've made Isabela – inconsistent, flippant, emotionally detached Isabela – her anchor, but she had, nonetheless. And when she'd fled after the incident with the Arishok, the Champion had been lost and alone for a long time. She still was, even now; the only difference was, Isabela was finally back.

Despite feelings she tried very hard to ignore and to eradicate, Hawke had to keep Isabela at a distance. It was the most punishment she could muster for the pirate, the most she herself could handle when all she longed to do was act as though they were as careless and unfettered as they were before the Qunari, before her mother's death, before… well, before she tried to confuse their casual relationship with compassionate emotions.

"I'll at least walk you home, Kitten." Tugging at the tiny elf's lithe frame, Isabela strode off without another look in Hawke's direction.

"Goodnight, Hawke," Merrill called out before she was swept away and out of sight completely. Aya was left standing there in the pirate's aggravated wake, letting out a heavy sigh.

"Maker, why does this have to be so complicated…"

* * *

Isabela wasn't the type for apologies. She wasn't the type for baring her emotions, or engaging in anything that even vaguely resembled begging. _I _especially_ do not go chasing after lovers like some petulant teenager,_ she reminded herself in a drunken haze. _No, because I wait for them to come to me. I'm hard to get – that's the deal. Hawke… she is confusing our roles. I'm hard to get, and reckless, and flirtatious, and noncommittal, and cool-headed. She is stubborn, and sarcastic, and overly romantic, and idealistic. _She_ should be coming after _me.

Isabela huffed, balling her fists at her side, wavering slightly in her drunkenness. The pirate was correct in all of her convictions. So why had she broken into the Hawke estate at three in the morning, and why _(Andraste's tits: WHY)_ was she standing awkwardly before Aya's bedroom door, debating whether or not to barge in?

Well, quite frankly, because she was pissed off. And because she'd consumed _way_ too much alcohol in the past three hours, even for her impressive level of tolerance. So, without over thinking it, she threw open the door to Hawke's bedroom, shutting it tightly behind her. Aya, who had been hunched over her desk fervently reading, nearly jumped out of her skin before turning to face her intruder, flames flaring defensively in the palms of her hands. When she realized _who_ she was facing, her green eyes widened with surprise, her brow knitting quizzically.

"Isa-"

"Oh, you must've been _so_ tired, Aya, seeing how you're still awake." As far as the pirate could tell, her speech wasn't slurred. But what did she know? She was drunk, after all.

"What… why are you here?" Hawke stood, the flames quickly retreating from her palms as she walked over to Isabela, concern crawling subtly into her features. The rogue knew she'd made the Champion nervous, a fact she drew quiet satisfaction from. She wasn't so snarky and arrogant now, was she?

"I had some things I wanted to say to you." Aya drew her arms over her chest, fidgeting quite obviously. Her lips pursed as the pirate stood before her looking both smug and completely irked. She knew this wasn't going to be good.

"Okay…"

"Look, Hawke," Isabela lurched forward gracelessly, leaving less than an inch of space between herself and the apostate. Aya flinched, eyes rounding in surprise and anxiety as she felt the heat of the pirate's breath on her face. Despite the stale, unpleasant smell of liquor that permeated this heat, there was still something wholly enticing about it. "I have been _very_ apologetic to you since returning. _Very._ And you know how I hate apologies. But it's the least I can do. I actually feel extremely guilty about ever leaving you and, yeah, I do regret this whole situation. I was the bad guy, and I've been trying to make up for that. I've been by your side ever since I returned, saving your ass from being flayed more times than I think even you realize. And… Andraste, you've been such a tit, you know that? Reckless and stupid and uncaring. I can't stand it, Hawke! But I put up with it, because I want you to… I don't know – forgive me?"

"I have forgiven you," Aya interjected quickly before the pirate scoffed. She was shrinking before Isabela's words, her gaze, the heat she was throwing off like a smoldering ember.

"Bullshit! You've been avoiding me, Aya. You refuse to even be alone with me for a few drinks in the Hanged Man!"

"That's not-" Aya assumed it might be impossible to get a word in edgewise, but decided she had to try. Still, the words left her lips sheepishly, not expecting to ever come to fruition.

"Not true? Oh, _c'mon!_" Hawke lowered her gaze, the shame growing as Isabela continued her verbal assault. "And you know what? That's not even the worst of it, Hawke. I've been spending almost every damn day trying to keep you out of trouble, and how do you repay me? You put up some cocky, self-righteous front and push me to my wits' end! So then _I _have to be the bigger person, and _I _have to scold you like… like _Aveline!_ And what do you do? You make some infuriatingly smug remark and make me look like a twat. That's just… you're… it's supposed to be the other way around, damnit!" At this point the pirate was becoming so frustrated; fumbling so badly for her words, that she was afraid she might be turning blue in the face.

Aya raised her gleaming emerald eyes carefully, meeting Isabela's fiery, belligerent glare with an expression of unguarded distress. She should've told the rogue outright how miserable she had felt in the past three years. How rest and relaxation had become a far-off memory since she'd been named the Champion of Kirkwall – a comfort as derisively remote as the fairytales her parents used to read to her in her childhood. She should've let it all out to begin with: the loneliness; the cold fury that had taken residence in her bones; the dark, distant pangs of sorrow that haunted her like the faces of the loved ones she'd failed to save. But she'd been afraid to admit these things to Isabela. Because she knew Isabela didn't _do_ emotions – her swift departure from the city had made that much clear. And she was truly afraid of driving the pirate off once more.

Hawke couldn't handle Isabela leaving again. This small truth was stringently clear to her – now more than ever – as lines of conflict and regret burned into her face, all words leaving her mind.

"I…" Isabela could see the grief scrawled over the apostate's face; however, it did very little to soften her. She was too drunk, too upset, too caught up in the flurry of bitter emotions that cascaded through her brain. These were exactly the type of emotions she'd fought her whole life to contain secretly within herself. But as she was releasing them now upon the only person she knew she would ever change for, the one person who could make her _want_ to change, she couldn't help but to lose herself a little bit. It was uncanny, she would later realize, how the person who had made her feel the greatest amount of happiness in the past six years was also the only person she could unleash this emotional chaos upon.

_This is why I didn't want to bring emotions into this… once you _really_ start to feel for someone, you start to lose your footing. You lose sight of your barriers, your inhibitions. This is a low for me. I'm weak, vulnerable, completely intolerable… because of her. Or how she makes me feel. I'm not sure which. I just know that this thing – love – is sick. You read about in poems, hear about it in songs like it's this precious, beautiful entity. Like it's a field of daisies and puppies and all that cute shit. But that's a lie. Love is a heat-seeking cluster-fuck of two people's absolute worst qualities, all melted down and scalding hot and setting everything aflame. _

Isabela swayed a little, her thoughts overwhelming her for a moment as she gazed intensely upon Aya. The silence was only angering her more, and it was no longer her turn to speak.

"What," she asked brusquely, causing the muscles in Hawke's neck and jaw to tense immediately. For a moment, she was sure that Aya was going to fire back at her, to yell and deny and defend her intentions the way any other person might have – the way she should have. Instead, the mage bridged the tiny gap between them rapidly, cupping the pirate's face in her hands and engulfing her with a ferociously sensual kiss. It was not happy, brought no relief between them – it was pained and desperate – yet somehow incited more passion than either woman had felt in over three years.

Aya pulled back suddenly, slightly, keeping her lips just a hair's-breadth from Isabela's as they ghosted over the heady whisper of an apology. _"I'm sorry," _the apostate breathed regretfully. _"I didn't… I just-"_ Isabela found the pulsating warmth that scattered from Hawke's lips to be absolutely maddening. It distilled her only slightly less than the sharp pain she felt as she muddled through Aya's fumbling grief.

"_Stop," _the pirate demanded gently as she crushed her lips into the apostate's once more. She withdrew her kiss a moment later, her heart beating wildly as she pushed Aya atop the bed and drifted desirously over her body. Her mouth connected quickly with the nape of Hawke's neck, and the mage let out a soft, eager gasp. The pirate was not gentle, however. She'd been waiting for this moment entirely too long to be gentle. She was compassionate though, nonetheless.

She worked her way up Aya's neck, biting down wherever the flesh felt too enticingly soft, leaving a faint trail of bruises along the apostate's skin. She lingered over the Champion's lips, drinking in her scent and lusty panting like a fine liquor. Hawke closed her eyes briefly, tacitly asking for _"more,"_ and eliciting a delighted, predatory grin from the pirate. Isabela's hand deftly moved over Aya's chest and groped, willing a sense of yearning to break through the mask of sadness that had previously encased the mage's beautiful features.

"_We've spent far too much time this past month apologizing," _Isabela breathed sensually, her thumb rubbing over the nipple she felt beneath Hawke's nightshirt. _"A waste, considering what else we could have been doing to occupy our time." _Aya let out a low moan as her quivering hands drew clumsily over the strings of Isabela's corset.

"_Yeah, no more apologizing. Especially not now," _the apostate said impatiently, her voice hoarse as Isabela chuckled sultrily. Their lips collided once again, hands working fervently to grope, to strip, to embrace each other as they'd so been longing to do.

The lpirate and the apostate arched into each other, their flesh seeming to coalesce in an act of heat and passion. And for the first time in a long time, the only thing that existed between them, within them, was the present. The past was no shadow; the future no consequence. All they had was each other, and in that moment, it seemed just right.

* * *

The next morning, Isabela woke before Aya. This was a rare occurrence and amused her slightly. She instinctively made a move to get up, to get dressed and get lost, but stopped herself short of leaving the bed. Early morning light streamed in through the window at the far end of the room, stretching out over the floor and furniture in warm, bright tendrils. The sunshine skirted along the soft curve of Aya's left cheek, shoulder, and abdomen, all exposed as she lay facing the rogue. Propped up on her elbow, Isabela smiled, noticing how the light caught perfectly over Hawke's pale skin and seemed to glow in the same way it might when caught on the face of a diamond. The apostate really was gorgeous, with all her fine, alluring features. Even now, as she snored softly, her face obscured by thick wisps of mussed, blonde hair, Aya was more beautiful than Isabela would ever hope to be, inside and out.

Sighing quietly, she rolled onto her pillow once more, facing Hawke as she had when she'd fallen asleep the night before. She really should leave, before Aya woke up. She would've before… before everything they'd been through. And had she been sharing this bed with anyone else, she would've bolted without a second thought.

But Aya Hawke wasn't _just_ anyone else, and that was the point, wasn't it? So, content, Isabela closed her eyes and drifted off once again into slumber.

* * *

**As always, I would absolutely appreciate reviews. Especially since I've spent most of the night finishing this chapter instead of writing a speech that I have to present, er... tomorrow. Oh, well, I'm a procrastinator. And this was worth it : )**


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay, first of all, I want to apologize for the slight delay in getting this chapter out. I've been in the midst of final papers, projects, and exams. Good news though - I've survived my first year of college, which means... more writing! Yay!**

**Second, this chapter is a bit more fluffy. I could've made it longer, but considering chapter five will be more angsty, I decided to keep this light. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The pirate sat at one of the many rickety, makeshift tables that the Hanged Man had to offer, sipping distractedly at a glass of sour tasting whiskey. She'd asked Merrill to join her on this night, to share a few drinks and allow the meek little elf to regale her with some of her latest tales from the alienage. When she'd made the offer, more as a means of allaying her own anxieties, Merrill had blushed, informing Isabela that she had nothing particularly amusing or interesting to entertain her with. The rogue could only sigh, shaking her head with a fond and slightly disappointed grin. Someday she would teach her kitten a thing or two about self confidence.

Tonight, she would shamefully admit, was more about her than it was about Merrill, however. She wasn't being the most gracious or attentive of friends, having been the one to request the sheepish blood mage's company, as she nodded absently, only half listening to Merrill's intoxicated ramblings. Tomorrow she would remind herself to apologize to the elf for her preoccupations. Right now though, she was comforted simply to be within a presence as lighthearted and exuberant as Merrill's. That was what she needed – something frivolous. As of late, she had been feeling so very… serious. Not necessarily in a bad way, but still, it left her uneasy.

She should be engaged in some obscene and positively gratuitous celebration (aside from the gracious and very physical thanks she'd offered Hawke) – Andraste's ass, she had a ship – she was a genuine captain again! Not only that, but she no longer had need to worry over whether or not Castillon would be planting a dagger between her shoulder blades on any given day. Just a few years earlier she would've run with these opportunities, sailing off into the sunset the moment she had the chance. But she'd received her prize nearly four days ago already, and here she was, still in Kirkwall, still landlocked, and if she was being totally honest, not really minding either of these facts. She would find herself at the helm of her ship in due time, serenely basking in salty sea breezes, all sun-kissed and drunk on the undulating sway of the ocean. _In due time._ Before she could embark on such a journey, she would need to acquire some very specific company.

An unbidden smile graced her lips as this thought occurred to her. Lifting her gaze from the liquid sitting stagnantly in her glass, begging to be imbibed, she was met with the equally pleased grin of her eleven companion. Surely, Merrill had thought the pirate's smile had been the result of her own charmingly oblivious storytelling. Unbeknownst to the excited blood made though, as her ramblings quickened and her eyes glittered in response, Isabela's delighted gaze was fixed wistfully far from the raucous tavern. Rather, her gaze was fixed inward, on a face that had come to be imprinted within her mind - a face she had furtively begun to covet, through stolen, peripheral glances or sleepy, morning ruminations.

With slight embarrassment and complacent exasperation, she resigned herself to the fact that feigning attention right now would be utterly useless. The softly flickering emeralds that cascaded through her mind exerted impressively little coaxing to make this fact clear to her. Eventually, Merrill would notice her distraction and draw the rogue from her musings, at which point Isabela would offer an earnest apology. If Merrill were to ask her what was on her mind, and the pirate was almost certain she would – out of nervous habit, if nothing else – she would be honest… to some extent. Keeping the feelings she held for Hawke hidden from their companions seemed like a rather fruitless venture at this point, and as it were, she had little inclination to keep secrets from Merrill. In fact, there was an unusually satisfied part of her that hoped the elf would bring up the subject, just so she would be pressed to say it out loud.

Still, before she could go off proclaiming their love from mountaintops (not that she would – that just wasn't her _style_), she and Hawke had to thoroughly discuss what the Hell it was they were doing. In times of intimacy it was fairly obvious to both of them what they felt; however, it was something that remained unsaid. Isabela wasn't terribly disconcerted by this mutually silent admission, and in fact, it warmed her heart. Aya was normally very vocal with her emotions, yet when it came to her pirate, she was comfortably taciturn.

In the rogue's gratified opinion, this silence was a testament to Hawke's acceptance of her. She knew who Isabela was – cocky, stubborn, overtly sexual, yet also fearful – fearful of love or, as Hawke had so keenly realized, of _being loved._ Isabela had scoffed at the idea when Aya had first said it. But during her three year sojourn from Kirkwall, the words had often haunted the rogue, going so far as to deprive her of many nights of slumber. It was during those long, sleepless nights that she realized Hawke had been right, just as she had been right about so many other things Isabela was too obstinate to admit. _That right there is one of the reasons why I need her,_ she pondered thoughtfully. _She doesn't push me, yet she somehow manages to make me realize all the truths I so doggedly refuse to admit._

Of course, admitting she _needed_ Aya was still something she was hard-pressed to say aloud, even when she was alone. After her mother had so callously sold her into marriage, and consequently unhappiness, she'd convinced herself that needing anyone was a bad idea and that it would ultimately lead to heartbreak of some sort. And if there was one thing Isabela had never quite learned to cope with, despite her confident and snarky exterior, it was heartbreak. If she thought for too long of her mother, for instance, the first person to ever break her heart, she could still feel the pangs of abject disappointment that had plagued her during her adolescent years.

So, she wouldn't _quite_ admit she needed Aya. For a long time she'd tried telling herself she didn't, not truly at least. She knew she needed the way that the mage would gaze upon her as she awoke in the morning – so intensely affectionate and willing to give her anything she might ask for. She needed that subtly adorable dimple that would carve itself into Hawke's cheek whenever she wore one of her famously mischievous grins. She needed the way in which Aya's lips would part and pant, so hopelessly vulnerable and submissive in her longing for the pirate.

She knew she needed all these _things_; however, it wasn't until she understood why that she knew she needed the woman behind them, as well. She needed that gaze, that dimple, those softly parted lips because, quite simply, they made her happy. _She_ made her heart feel whole. It was during the three years she'd spent without her that she realized her own heart was wounded and punctured a hundred times over, often in ways she'd refused to yield to or acknowledge in the past. And when she'd returned to Aya, finally, she knew that the bloody mage had the ability to render even those deep-seeded pains completely ineffective, all with a single smile or laugh.

She suspected Hawke knew this, too, as perceptive and quietly contemplative as she could be. Not a week ago, the mage had woken to find Isabela staring at her with rather uncharacteristic _ardor._ Isabela knew she shouldn't have allowed Aya to catch her doing so, but as it were, she was feeling most unlike herself that morning, and had allowed Hawke the satisfaction. Since then, she had caught the Champion pensively staring off into space on more than one occasion, a smug and fervent smile adorning her lovely face.

Despite her smugness or untamed affections, however, Hawke never pressed Isabela. She chose her reservations according to the pirate's, allowing her lover ample space and privacy while making it known that her withholdings were not for a lack of care. She did not smother Isabela, nor did she make her feel obliged to voice her emotions in a way that was unlike her. The pirate acknowledged that this probably took a great deal of self-control on the part of the apostate. And who knows, perhaps Aya's hesitation was in some way caused by a fear of her own – not a fear of uncertainty, but a fear of driving away the person she too needed. Regardless, she knew it was majorly due to the fact that Hawke simply accepted her – vulgarity, inconsistency, and deceitful past included.

Isabela had once drunkenly quipped to Aya, _"How you put up with me, I'll never know, Hawke. I must drive you _crazy_."_ The last word had come out in a lascivious purr, hiding an innocuous truth that would've afforded the pirate at least three more shots of liquor, had she allowed herself to dwell on it. She did drive Aya crazy, but most of the time she was trying to, partially to see how much the mage would put up with.

"_Well, what can I say," _Hawke quietly replied, gazing down at her hands in an unusually sheepish manner that caused the pirate's sarcastic grin to falter. _"I have an unearthly amount of patience for you." _Suddenly, she lifted her glimmering emeralds most intensely, meeting Isabela's amber eyes with a mysterious and humble resignation. _"Only for you though."_ As the rogue assessed her, gaze narrowed, Aya chuckled and gulped down the rest of her drink eagerly.

At the time, Isabela had had difficulty discerning the implication that Hawke's words had carried. However, her constant considerations and acceptance made for a rather clear explanation. Somehow, Aya knew what Isabela felt better than even she understood, most of the time. She'd known the pirate loved her long before the relic debacle, and since then, she'd merely been waiting. And she would continue to wait for Isabela, all because of that unearthly patience.

Isabela no longer wished to make Aya wait though. She no longer wished to wait for herself.

"Isabela?" The pirate was roused from her contemplation as she felt an insistent poking in her arm.

"Hmm?" As she refocused herself in the present, registering the acrid scent of the Hanged Man wafting into her nose and an anxiously blushing elf sitting before her, Isabela smiled softly.

"You weren't listening, were you? I suspected you might not be. I thought you were either very engaged in my story or dreadfully bored by it. Obviously it was the latter. I'm sorry. I wish I had something more interesting-" Isabela sighed and leaned forward to pat Merrill's cheek affectionately. The poor elf was always fretting over how she thought herself to be such terrible company. In fact, this quality was quite endearing and genuine, and was part of why Isabela found her to be just the opposite.

"No, _I'm_ sorry, Kitten. I _was_ listening, and I'm always interested in your stories. Trust me. I'm just feeling particularly distracted tonight." Merrill relaxed instantly and fell back in her seat, though there was a hint of concern in her large, mossy eyes.

"Distracted? Is everything alright?" Isabela couldn't help but grin slightly.

"_Quite_ alright." Merrill nodded, feeling satisfied with this answer. She took another sip of her wine as the pirate noticed a visible flicker in her eyes, followed by an inquisitive smile. The elf could be so naïve, and most people thought her to be nothing more, but Isabela knew just how smart and intuitive she truly was.

"I bet you're thinking about Hawke. That's it, isn't it? You're thinking about Hawke!" The rogue chuckled and crossed her arms over her chest, amusement showing itself on her face.

"And why would you think _that_," she asked, playing coy.

"You two haven't been fighting this week. At least not much, compared to how often you have been this past month," the elf continued on excitedly. "Something good happened between you two, didn't it?"

"Oh yes," Isabela answered, her eyes gleaming impishly. "Something _delectable_."

Merrill seemed momentarily confused before she concluded, "Oh, so it has to do with sex. I get it." The pirate laughed loudly, more humored by Merrill's sweet, innocent reactions than her words.

"Atta girl, Kitten. You make me proud."

"But it's more than that, isn't it? You wouldn't be smiling like that if it weren't."

"Wouldn't I? How do you suppose I'm smiling," Isabela asked curiously.

"Well… I could be wrong. But I like to think I'm pretty good at reading you, since we're friends. Actually, you're probably my best friend. Aside from Hawke, or Varric. Or Aveline, even. But they don't make me laugh as much as you do, or teach me as many 'important life lessons'. Which is why I say that you're my _best_ friend-" The pirate grinned and shook her head fondly.

"I am, Kitten. And you are mine," Isabela noted the way Merrill's round eyes lit up at this admission with satisfaction. "However, you're rambling again. So, I'm curious. How is my smile so different?"

"Right, sorry. Well, like I meant to say, if it were just about… you know-"

"Sex," Isabela casually said.

"Yes. If it were just about that, you'd look very pleased with yourself. Like you do after you talk all sweet to the vendors in the bazaar and convince them to sell you their wares at half price. Or when you pick a difficult lock and find a special trinket. But this isn't like that. It's not quite as… I'm not sure what the right word would be…"

"Selfish," the rogue offered, knowing it to be the truth, and knowing Merrill was too kind to say such a thing about her. The elf was about to protest, worried she'd offended Isabela in some way, but the pirate merely held up her hand. "You probably don't want to admit it, but I know it's true."

"I wouldn't say that, Bela. That's so harsh. But you understand what I mean. If it were just about sex, that smile would be all for yourself, but it's not. It's a selfless kind of smile. Like you're very happy and you just want to share it. Perhaps with Hawke." In spite of herself, Isabela couldn't help but smirk. Yes, her kitten was indeed clever. "Was I right? You look like I was right."

"… Maybe." Merrill groaned at the pirate's vague answer. She was getting caught up in her excitement, and the alcohol certainly wasn't helping. Isabela was too amused to give the elf a straight answer though.

"C'mon, you have to at least tell me if I was right!" Isabela chuckled.

"Only time will tell, Kitten. However, I will say this: I _am_ very happy." The frustration in Merrill's eyes quickly subsided, and was replaced with true joy.

"I'm very glad, Bela. You should be happy. You may not always think you deserve it, but I believe you do."

"Oh, Merrill… if you weren't so sweet and innocent I would most certainly try to take advantage of you right now. In fact," she pushed the elf's wine glass closer towards her with a sly grin and a wink, "drink up. I still might." The tiny blood mage blushed and let out a giggle.

"You know, Isabela, when you say things like that, I'm not sure whether I should be nervous or flattered."

"Trust me. Both."

* * *

Merrill only lasted another hour and two glasses of wine before the pirate decided it was time to walk her home. Their nights of "debauchery" only ever ended in one of two ways: either the elf passed out at their table and Isabela was forced to lug her up to her own room for the night, or she'd walk her back to the alienage stumbling and incoherent. On this particular night, Isabela was feeling sober enough to take that short, pleasant stroll down to the alienage where she helped a half passed out Merrill into bed.

She returned to the Hanged Man pleased that she had time to polish off a few pints of ale before paying a midnight visit to the Hawke estate. However, as she resumed her position at that decrepit barrel of a tavern table, she realized the latter wouldn't be necessary. Aya sauntered into the bar leisurely, eyes scanning the room for a certain pirate who had spied her the moment she'd ambled in. The apostate wore her light leather armor and donned a new bruise on her chin; however, she appeared cheerful regardless, and Isabela couldn't help the slight smirk that crawled across her lips. A few patrons raised their mugs to the Champion as she walked by, and though she waved to them amicably, her gaze still sought her roguish lover. The moment Aya spotted Isabela in the rear of the tavern, her plump lips quirked into an infectious grin.

The pirate's heart rate quickened at the sight of that electrifying smile, and for a moment, she felt a sudden pulse of nerves in her stomach. She wasn't entirely sure why – Hawke was already flagging down the barmaid for a pint, which meant she was in for a fun, laid-back night. She just felt there were things they _should_ discuss – things that, quite frankly, she _wanted_ to discuss.

"Isabela," Hawke said, taking a seat across from her at the small table. Their legs grazed in what minimal space they had, causing a brief jolt between them.

"Hawke."

"You look-"

"Ravishing," the pirate offered.

"I was going to say 'sober,' surprisingly. No need to state the obvious, right?" The barmaid placed a pint in front of the mage, who thanked her briefly, not taking her eyes off of the woman in front of her.

"You're such a flatterer," Isabela drawled, rolling her eyes. "And for your information, I've plenty of time to correct that pesky sobriety." Hawke chuckled, taking a large gulp of her ale. "_You're_ looking a bit bruised. Were you gallivanting across Hightown without me again?"

"I don't really think that fending off thugs for the city guard constitutes as 'gallivanting'. You know, one of these days I'm going to demand payment."

"No you won't," Isabela scoffed. "You're too righteous and altruistic to even ask."

"I guess. I must bore you to tears."

"Don't worry," the pirate said, pressing her leg sensually against Hawke's under the table. "What you lack in terms of depravity you more than make up for in sexual prowess." The apostate blushed and smiled modestly. "Feeling shy tonight?"

"No, I was just… no." Isabela laughed, feeling quite pleased with herself. As cocky and confident as the mage could be, she was still prone to fits of bashfulness. It was terribly endearing. "So, I was wondering – when will I be receiving the grand tour of your new ship?"

"Soon. I need to do a bit of redecorating first. Give it my personal touch."

"Well, I can't wait to see _that_," the apostate said playfully. She seemed to be in such high spirits tonight, which only furthered the foolishness Isabela felt at the rapidity of her own heart beat. Hawke clearly wasn't nervous, why should she be? Then again, Hawke was completely unaware of the topic of conversation the pirate was suddenly so anxious to speak of. Had she any clue, the apostate certainly would've been fidgeting.

"That reminds me though, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately… about when I do finally set sail – whenever that may be."

"You don't have any idea," Aya inquired hastily, a glimmer of anticipation in her eyes.

"Not yet."

"So I can safely assume you'll be sticking around for a while?" Hawke's voice was delicate and hopeful, causing the pirate to avert her eyes timidly as she answered.

"For a while, yes. Despite the amount of time I spend here drinking, I do consider myself as having actual business in Kirkwall, what with that bloody Knight-Commander vying for the heads of mages. I keep so many apostates in my company that I really can't avoid it." Aya was beaming at this admission. She tried to contain it, but it wasn't much use. She could be such a child at times, allowing herself to be so fully consumed by her excitement and conviction. Yet there was also something distinctly juvenile about the ways in which she bore her shame or guilt, much like a child caught misbehaving by a parent. Isabela pretended that this particular quality frustrated her, but deep down, she was fond of it.

"I'm glad you think so, Isabela. The thought of this rivalry between Meredith and Orsino going to utter shit seems more like an inevitability every day." The rogue noticed there was a touch of sadness to Hawke's voice at this confession, yet she quickly masked it with a subtle smile. "It'll be nice to have you at my side when this whole thing comes to blows. I'm sure Merrill and Anders feel the same. However," the mage took another hearty swig of her drink and grinned, "I'm in too good of a mood to talk about how Meredith wants to throw us in cages. So, when you do sail out of here, where do you think you'll go?"

"To be honest, I haven't thought that far ahead. There's a lot of preparations that need to be accomplished before I can consider the fun bits. For starters, I'll need to gather a reliable crew. Which I actually wanted to talk to you about, because…" the pirate had to pause, simply to control the thrumming in her chest. _There's no damn reason why this should be so difficult for me,_ she noted with mild distaste. "I'd like to have someone like you on board. Someone who I can trust, who has my back, no matter what happens."

"You want me to go with you," Hawke asked, seeming somewhat surprised.

"Yes. I guess… that might be a lot to ask. You are the _mighty_ Champion of Kirkwall, after all. Most of the city depends on you to do their dirty work. I just thought you might want a break. You should." Aya turned to gaze wistfully into the fireplace, her brow knitting slightly. For a moment, Isabela regretted even asking. _That _is_ a lot to ask, you twit. How could you expect her to drop everything, to-_

"You're right – I should. I've been risking my neck for the sake of everyone else since I came to Kirkwall. Running errands, apprehending criminals, fixing other people's problems. And it never ends. Hell, even when my mother died… no one cut me a break, except for Aveline. I feel duty-bound to help, but I know its bull shit. In fact," suddenly Aya turned back to Isabela, her face a mix of pensive thought and weariness, "it's been like this since Lothering. Since my father died. I haven't done a damn thing for myself. I think it's about time. I want to join you on your ship. I will, when all this fighting is over. As soon as Meredith and Orsino reach some sort of solution, we'll get out of here."

Isabela couldn't help the smile that hitched up the corner of her mouth, despite the nerves still burgeoning in her stomach. This wasn't the only thing she'd meant to discuss. Hawke's answer made happier than even she had expected; but with that happiness, she understood she needed to make her confession. She just wasn't sure she could do it.

"I'll make sure you don't regret it, Aya. Though I have a feeling you'll love sailing. It'll be you and me chasing that horizon. I," she stumbled over the words for just a moment, "can't think of any place I'd rather be." Something in the mage's eyes flickered, and she seemed so sit up just a bit straighter. Had the pirate said too much? No, of course not. _Hawke is a bloody romantic. She tries to pretend she's not, but denying it is pointless. Deep down, she's completely hopeless. She's probably ecstatic right now…_

"Me too," was all the apostate could muster, though the fervor that flared through her irises was indicative of a far deeper emotion. There was more she wanted to say in that moment – things she had longed to say for… well, years, if she was being totally honest. However, they were also thing she knew she couldn't say – not without hearing them from Isabela first. The last thing she'd ever want to do is push the pirate, and so she kept her mouth shut, all the while carefully scrutinizing the woman across from her.

In the dim, wavering light cast over Isabela from the fireplace, a furor of emotions was delineated across her face. Anxiety, elation, fear, frustration, and… yes, Aya was certain she'd spotted it: love. She'd caught glimpses of it in the pirate before, though admittedly the brevity of its reveal seemed to greatly outweigh its need to spill forth. But to see that emotion so plaintively scrawled across the rogue's fine features _now,_ vainly concealed beneath layers of negativity and apprehension, made her feel particularly joyous.

However, beyond that emotional turmoil Hawke noticed a more curious tick fighting against the pirate's instincts. The set of her jaw had tightened and sat awkwardly and almost imperceptibly askew. Her eyes had dilated slightly, her lips pursed briefly, and she blinked irregularly. These actions seemed to occur unconsciously, as Isabela paid no heed to them, and Aya was certain that she was the only person who could decipher these fleeting mannerisms. The rogue's usually mellow or otherwise keenly sensual demeanor had shifted, and she was uncharacteristically vacillating. After a long moment of inspection, Aya concluded that Isabela must've had some very specific words on the tip of her tongue – words she fruitlessly contested against. Once again, the mage didn't want to push her; however, her curiosity won over her better judgment, and she couldn't help but prod… just a little bit.

"That's not all you wanted to say though, is it," Aya asked gently. Isabela shifted in her seat, keeping her eyes down. She was afraid to speak her true feelings aloud; however, now did seem as good a time as any.

"Well, I…" The words seemed to stick uncomfortably in her throat as she met Aya's lovely gaze. _Andraste's ass, Isabela, you are _no_ coward. If you're going to go through with this, you will do it properly. You will look her in the eyes. You owe her that._

"Bela, you said it yourself: you can trust me. Just tell me what's going through your mind." The apostate's gentle voice and smoldering eyes soothed Isabela in a way she had not expected. In spite of the knots in her stomach, she was bolstered with renewed confidence – not just in herself, but in the truth of her words. She meant what she had to say, more than she'd meant anything in a long time. Locking her gaze with Aya's she was reminded of this insistent fact.

"I think I've… I've fallen for you." The apostate's eyes widened and her lips parted slightly, at loss for words, in the exact way that Isabela loved. Had she not noticed the adoration of happiness so clearly painted over her astonished features, the pirate might be worried.

"I…" Hawke's obvious inability to form a coherent sentence was rather charming; however, not exactly a comfort amidst the pirate's glaring nerves. To have those words out in the open was one thing, but to acknowledge them simply dangling there was another entirely. She couldn't possibly feel relief until the mage said something. _Anything, for the love of the Maker, Aya…_

"I would, uh, really appreciate it if you said something right now. Even if it's total nonsense. I just need you to give me some indication that you feel the same or… you think we have a chance at making this work." _And now I'm rambling on like Merrill. That aggravating confidence Hawke always seems to boast in battle would work wonders right now, even if it _were_ only a façade. _

"I… don't think you know how long I've been waiting to hear you say that," the apostate finally offered, an infinitely fond smile slowly spreading over lips.

"Thank you," Isabela said, perhaps a bit too quietly. "For waiting, for… everything you've done for me."

"It was worth it," Aya replied before leaning over to cup the pirate's face in her palms. Both their heads swam with an almost ethereal kind of joy as their lips collided in a torrid, yet feather-light kiss. The apostate pulled back slightly, resting her forehead against Isabela's and breathed, "And just because it's so nice to _finally _be able to say it out loud: I love you."

As her lover's soft, affectionate words lingered over her lips, Isabela had to wonder why she'd ever been afraid of such an emotion. For in this moment, it made her feel stronger than she'd ever been before. Happier, too.

* * *

**Please review! I love everyone's kind words and criticisms : ) Like I said, next chapter will be more angsty as I tackle a particular instance in act three that I think made all of us in a romance with Isabela go "Wait... seriously?" Haha, I think you can probably guess what instance I'm referring to...**


	5. Chapter 5

**Well, I'm not totally crazy about this chapter. But I also couldn't see it improving much, so I thought I would post it anyways. **

**Once again, big, big thanks to all who have reviewed, favorited, or put this on alert. You're all wonderful.**

* * *

"_You need to understand, my Bela, that people never change – not truly – and we should never expect them to. We are all creatures of instinct. And the stuff of which we are made – the stuff that makes us so resolutely unique – will always act of its own volition." _

_She was but a girl of twelve, precocious and firm as she looked upon her swiftly dying father with unflinching devotion. She was _his_ girl, and told herself she always would be. As he reached over to cradle her chin in his large, calloused hand, she furiously contained the tears that wished to stream unbidden down her dusky cheeks. She'd spent months telling herself that he simply could not die; however, as his life wavered precariously in the waning firelight, she had to know that he would, in spite of his defiance, pass. She understood that, but she refused to accept it._

_There was nothing she could do to stop it now. The healers had long since given up. Her mother had resigned to his passing. Yet Isabela was merely too stubborn to concede to a thing as treacherous as death. Her loyalty to him was far too steadfast to allow for such… betrayal. The only thing she could seem to accept was that when he finally did pass from this world, it would be utterly wrenching. _

"_Just look at you, my little one. You are made of strong stuff, indeed." He chuckled weakly, and the girl couldn't bring herself to smile. "You have a will unlike any I have ever seen in a child your age. You are so strong, so intelligent… so damned stubborn. You take right after your Papa. The way you always coerce the other children of the village into doing your bidding is impressive. If it weren't for that golden heart of yours, I might be worried." The dark-haired man sighed, releasing an exasperation and lassitude that were well beyond his years. His gaze drifted from his daughter and lingered over the fire. The girl traced his line of sight, but had a feeling that he was not seeing the cracking, orange flames, but a vision entirely his own. _

"_You have grown so quickly, Bela," he whispered painfully. "Before we know it, you will be a woman. Strong, beautiful… breaking hearts, I'm sure. I only wish that… that I could live to see it." She fought so hard against it, but could not contain the broken sob that erupted from her lips. Her father turned his gaze upon her again, now with renewed tenacity, and clutched her face desperately. "Strong, intelligent, stubborn, beautiful. Those are the qualities that make you so uniquely my Bela, and I _know_ they always will. I need to warn you though: these traits will lead you into many traps. I know, for I carry them, too, and they have been both a blessing and a curse to me. People never change…" he mumbled, his dwindling voice laden with a sorrow unrelated to his death. "But the heart's affections always do. And you _need_ to remember – the only thing that can rival instinct, that can make us stronger, is the heart's affections. You'll never be able to change who you are, Bela, but if you allow it to, love can always make you _better_. You must remember this, dear, you must…"_

Isabela's eyes drifted open lethargically, still heavy in the haze of memory. She hadn't been sleeping, nor had she necessarily been awake. She'd simply been laying there, flat on her back, drawing in deliberately slow, even breaths to match the pace of those coming from the slumbering form nestled against her side. The insurgence of solemn childhood memories was as surprising to her as her complete restlessness. The past few weeks had bestowed upon her some of the most peaceful sleep she could ever remember having. She could only attribute this newfound calm to her honesty with Aya, of course.

Since that night in the Hanged Man, where she'd admitted that she had fallen for Hawke, and the apostate had subsequently professed a love so tender it practically made the pirate ache, respite had come easy. The days were growing longer for the Champion though, bogged down with the irksome and impetuous demands of Meredith as well as a never-ending stream of requests from nobles and beggars alike. The work wore on the mage, and sometimes stole her from Isabela where it would not have before (to the dismay of them both). Regardless, she would always come to the rogue at night, or request her presence at the Hawke estate. And at night they would exhaust themselves completely, making as much disarmingly candid love as either could muster, an act that before had been so foreign to the fickle pirate.

Even now, Isabela could feel the weariness that sat heavily within her bones, though it seemed a weariness not made for sleeping. Merely, it was a weariness made for thinking, for contemplating thoughts she had abandoned at a ripe and callow age, simply as a means of deflecting her own pain. This memory in particular surprised her, for though she carried the remnants of it with her always, she had not taken the time to reflect on it in years.

Her dying father's proclamation that "people never change" had been something she'd taken to heart immediately. It had served as an unsympathetic mantra to her during her adult life. The latter bit of this proclamation, however – the bit about love – she had given up on long ago, probably around the same time her mother had sold her into a harsh, loveless marriage. So why start thinking about it now?

Aya stirred briefly, mumbling sleepy, incoherent words and snuggling closer to Isabela's abdomen. Without thinking, the pirate wove her hand through the mage's blonde tresses, and began to gently stroke the silky locks. It was a wonder how naturally a loving gesture such as this had come to her once she'd abandoned her hopeless attempt at ignoring her affections. Before it would have seemed awkward or stilted; but after confessing her feelings to Hawke, it was as effortless as any other physical caress.

_The only thing that can rival instinct, that can make us stronger, is the heart's affections_, she reminded herself, closing her eyes once again. An actual relationship was still so new to her – she didn't entirely trust herself with it. She trusted Aya though. She always could, and that made her feel stronger.

_After all the terribly shitty things I've done in my life, I think Papa would be proud of me now. _

* * *

_You'll never be able to change who you are, Bela… _

Before coming to Kirkwall she'd never desired to change. It just didn't seem necessary. She never would've pretended that she was without her flaws, because she wasn't. She was lewd and deceitful and to be truthful, she was _okay _with that. Just okay though.

But then Aya had come along, with all of her charm and humor and courage, and she niggled her way into the pirate's heart. For the longest time, Isabela still had no desire to change; but all of a sudden, she was feeling less than okay with being the immoral wench that she was. Then she'd gone and done the stupidest, most brilliant thing possible: she'd fallen in love. And finally, she truly wanted to change. She just wasn't sure that she could.

She felt pathetic, in that sense. There was a very secret part of herself she kept hidden from the rest of the world – a part that was insecure and fearful. A very guilty part that constantly seemed to tell her _"You want to change? Good for you. Too bad it's never going to happen." _It was the self-doubt talking, of course, but she couldn't shake it.

Isabela was sure that secret, insufferably apprehensive part of herself was to blame for the whole mess with Zevran. It just had to be. She hadn't even wanted to have sex with him – not really, at least. It's just that she knew the old her – the uncommitted, promiscuous her – would have wanted to. Which is why the moment she saw him ready to walk away, without so much as even trying to _seduce_ her (that, in all honesty, was a bit insulting), the secret part of her with that damned insistent voice in the back of her mind protested.

It all happened very quickly. He'd bowed to her suavely and said, "My dear Isabela, it has been a delight to see you again. You travel in such fine company." Of course, she knew that when he said "fine company" he'd actually meant "gorgeous green-eyed blonde" – that much was obvious as he'd spared a sly, devious glance in the apostate's direction. The pirate had a rather vivid idea of what kind of lecherous thoughts were playing out in his filthy mind when he'd eyed Hawke. For a brief second, she had even felt a strange, possessive twist in her gut. Perhaps it was in this odd moment of weakness that the voice in her head had seized in order to overwhelm her good sense. Because before she knew it, her mouth was gaping and she seemed to be… vomiting words she'd never meant to say out loud.

"That's it – you're leaving? What about sex?"How peculiar a moment it was. Isabela was no stranger to regret – she'd felt it often enough in her life, particularly when pertaining to a certain irresistibly endearing mage – but she'd most often reserved her regret for her actions. Words seemed too fleeting to warrant such unsavory repentance. Yet the moment she'd realized what question had spewed unsolicited from her lips, she wished to recapture it. She wished to take back her own selfishness.

Turning to Aya wasn't necessary – Isabela already knew what expression would be adorning her lovely face. Wishful thinking told her it should be a look of mere anger and indignity, but she knew it wouldn't be. Zevran laughed haughtily and issued some remark she didn't even hear. Whatever it had been, she knew it would only inflame the situation. Instead of paying him any heed, she hazarded a glace in the direction of her Champion and instantly had to bite back a wince.

She'd known Aya had been uncomfortable enough when they'd first met Zevran in the cave outside of the Dalish camp. It was always awkward for Isabela to find herself within the presence of two lovers – one former and one current. Of course, she'd always managed to maneuver the situation in a more exciting direction, as well, what with her well-practiced seduction. But Aya was more than just a lover – they were in a relationship – a real, _dedicated_ relationship. Old Zev never would've guessed that she had found someone thrilling enough to "tie her down," but then again, he didn't know Aya Hawke.

The apostate was cordial though, regardless of her discomfort, and had chosen to take the assassin's word over Nuncio's and let him go. Isabela was grateful knowing Hawke had done it merely as a favor to her, and hoped the Crows wouldn't be too much trouble. Between her, Hawke, Merrill, and Varric they could've easily been dispatched, but with Zevran's help, the work was made even simpler. The smooth elf was quite appreciative, offering Aya what small reward he could. From there, she should have just let him leave. _Should have._

Now she was rapidly shrinking beneath Hawke's unflappable mask of disappointment. She suspected the apostate was trying to appear neutral, at least for the sake of saving face in front of her companions and Zevran, but it wasn't difficult for Isabela to see through it. The rapid and subtle flickering of the mage's pupils betrayed all the dispassion she forced. There was a near inscrutable dip in her right cheek and the pirate knew she had clamped down on the soft flesh inside her mouth. She often bit her cheek or tongue whenever she was trying not to portray emotion. It usually worked. But coupled with the slight way in which her nostrils flared, the effort was seemingly ineffective. Aya was let down. Hurt. Angry. Isabela could sense it immediately.

The pirate turned back to Zevran, cursing his affable, over-sexed smirk. He extended his hand to her, as if to say "Come on. You want to." His gaze was alluring, and hungry even, but she no longer had any desire for it – for him. However, it seemed Hawke did not realize this. Why should she? Moments ago, Isabela had propositioned the elf for sex – it _was_ unlikely that she had… simply changed her mind.

"Isabela… don't."The plea in the mage's voice was small, as if she knew Isabela's mind was already made up, as if there would be no stopping her. And the pirate understood that Aya _wouldn't_ stop her – she would ask for the rogue to change her mind, but she wouldn't stop her. Because Hawke cared for her too much to make her change. That hopelessness in her voice stung Isabela deeply. _Damnit. _

"Feel free to join us, Champion. Your presence would be _most_ desirable."The elf chuckled throatily, as if to seem charming. However, the way his gaze lingered conspicuously and almost predatorily over Hawke's body… well, it wasn't entirely "friendly". And though Isabela stubbornly did not want to admit it, she was not fond of the obscene glaze that had overtaken his eyes. The slow trickle of heat rising in her stomach made it feel as though the assassin was poised to plunder a treasure she had laid her claim on long ago, and Andraste, she was _jealous_.

"No thanks," Hawke replied flatly.

"Such a shame," the lithe elf turned eagerly to Isabela. "So, shall we proceed then?"The pirate pursed her lips, shaking her head without glancing at the mage. She could already feel Aya's gaze boring into her, as well as the relief the apostate made little effort to contain. Regardless, Isabela knew she wasn't forgiven. She so wished she could turn to Hawke and elicit one of her delightful grins, perhaps with a snarky comment like, "There better be sex to make up for this later"; but she was certain that her sarcasm wouldn't be welcome right now.

Shortly after, Hawke and her cohorts parted ways from the Antivan assassin. Normally Isabela would've felt some disappointment having to bid him farewell (sex or no), but found herself so distracted trying to read Aya's features that she was rather disinterested in Zevran. Even as she said goodbye, her eyes were trained on the Champion's form, attempting to glean some semblance of what she was thinking through the tension in her shoulders or the tightening of her jaw.

Their trek back to the city was painfully quiet, with only Merrill and Varric maintaining a quiet discussion. They made a few brief attempts at speaking to the tense blonde, to which she replied with curt nods and murmurs. Isabela tried to lighten the mood with some of the usual banter she shared with Varric, but abandoned this effort, finding it to be blatantly half-hearted. Varric and Merrill both noticed this, and were clearly uncomfortable – Varric was being particularly soft-spoken and the regularly chatty elf was hardly rambling. The rogue couldn't wait to return to Kirkwall and escape the awkward silence. Yet at the same time, she feared being back in the Hanged Man, alone with the upset Champion.

At the time, the journey had seemed slow, yet the moment Isabela stood at the door of the tavern, she felt it had passed entirely too quickly. Night had fallen about an hour previous, and Varric offered to walk Merrill back to the alienage. After they had left, the pirate and the apostate stood outside the tavern – Isabela leaned towards the door, ready to go in, but Aya didn't budge in either direction.

After a rather long and anxious minute, Isabela cleared her throat and said, "So… do you want to go inside? And… talk?" Aya stared at her for a moment, her face impassive and arms dangling casually at her sides. Her aloof emerald eyes gazed directly into the pirate's amber hues, unblinking.

"Sure," she replied. Isabela hesitated at the door for a few seconds, her hand hovering over the splintered wood before pushing her way inside. Hawke followed her silently, past the bar, through a throng of raucous patrons, and up the stairs to the pirate's room. The moment they were inside, the rogue shut the door, turning to assess Aya as she took her place in front of the fireplace. The embers from that morning still smoldered, casting a blunt orange glow over the right side of the apostate's body. The other half was sheathed in dull shadows, falling over the curve of Hawke's soft cheeks, full lips, and across her chest. The mage's vestige was projected upon the wall, prominent and still like a statue. Had she not felt so anxious, Isabela would've marveled at the sheer, magnetic beauty of her lover. Unfortunately, she found no solace in Hawke's fine features now, only intimidation – a feeling she was not used to.

"Hawke-"

"Isabela." The mage was too cool, even for her normally composed and sometimes arrogant façade. The pirate was unsettled, seeing this as the calm before the storm. The turbulence in her green eyes and softly pleading voice at the Crows' camp indicated that much.

"Look, I… I didn't mean it," she sputtered ineffectively, causing Hawke to raise a brow. Her cool veneer was falling away quicker than the pirate would've guessed, her jaw clenching and hands bunching into tight fists.

"What, _exactly_, are you referring to," she said tersely. _Of course she's going to make me say it,_ Isabela thought with a heavy sigh.

"I didn't want to have sex with Zevran." The pirate knew this statement sounded foolish the moment it left her lips.

"Really?" Aya edged closer to the rogue, throwing heat in all directions, her voice caustic and distressed. Isabela had never seen her like _this_ before. The apostate generally had such firm control over her emotions – her restraint was part of what made her so powerful, so terribly appealing. But in this moment, she allowed her feelings to course recklessly through her. The pirate would be remiss if she didn't acknowledge that her current emotional abandon was also quite appealing; however, to be on the receiving end of it was regrettable. "Because it sure _sounded_ like you wanted to have sex with him."

"I know what it sounded like," Isabela said, already exasperated as she stepped forward and placed a hand on Hawke's arm. Aya flinched, but she did not pull away, which seemed like a good sign. "The second it left my lips I wanted to take it back."

"If you didn't want it, why did you say it," the Champion asked hotly, her eyes glinting just slightly in the waning firelight. The pirate gulped – this part would be hard to explain, and she knew she couldn't do it under the scrutiny of Hawke's pained glare. She removed her hand and paced towards the door, facing the wall at the far left side of the room. She tried to keep her eyes fixed in one position, but failed, cursing her own vulnerability.

"I want to change, Hawke. I swear that I do," she explained, her voice smaller than usual. "But I worry constantly that… maybe I can't. I don't want to be some wench, hopping from bed to bed. I only want you." Her words were tinged with a slight quiver. She fought against it, but couldn't overcome her nerves. "I'm not used to that – to only really desiring one person – to having these kinds of obligations. What I _am_ used to is batting an eyelash at every person who wants it, avoiding all attachments, having meaningless sex. But what we have… our relationship… it's the most meaningful thing I've had in a very long time. Maybe that scares me. It goes against my entire lifestyle…" She turned back to meet her Champion's eyes. The anger had dissipated, but the hurt was still present.

"I guess," Hawke paused for a long moment, drawing a hand through her blonde hair. Her mouth wavered, opening and closing faintly as if resisting whatever words had risen to the tip of her tongue. Her eyes had been darting all over the floor – down at her feet, next to Isabela's, and finally to the shadows crawling haphazardly across the floorboards. Then, abruptly, she lifted her eyes to meet the pirate's with unsettling tenacity. "I was asking for too much." This admission was not accusatory or spiteful – rather, it was self-admonishing.

"What do you mean?" Isabela closed the gap between them once again, but did not have the courage to touch Aya. The mage looked so breakable, her features laced in dull remorse. She shouldn't have blamed herself for the rogue's shortcomings, but she did. Unfortunately, Isabela felt too ashamed to correct her.

"I pushed you, I know. To be something you're not. I didn't mean to. I fell for who you are, not what others think you should be. It's just… I don't want to think of you with anybody else. It makes me feel sick. I'm sorry." The Champion's apology was rushed as she quickly swept past Isabela, her hand on the doorknob almost before the pirate had a chance to turn around, to grab hold of her wrist.

There were so many things she should've said in that moment. _"Please don't be sorry. You were right to feel that way." _Or _"I want you to push me. I want to be better for you."_ But with her heart beating heavily in her chest and her mind moving rapidly, the first words to reach her lips were "Where are you going?"

Aya didn't look back at her, didn't shrug out of the pirate's grasp. She merely bowed her head and said, "I need to go for a walk." She wriggled her hand inside of Isabela's swiftly and gave it a quick squeeze. Her skin was cold and clammy. Then she left.

* * *

… _but if you allow it to, love can always make you _better_._

For a long while after Aya left, Isabela simply sat at her desk, staring into the dying fire. At one point she'd ventured downstairs to the bar to pick up a bottle of whiskey, but found she had little desire to sit among the obnoxious patrons and unruly sounds. Instead, she returned to her room and initiated an hour of woeful brooding that would've given Fenris a run for his money. She sipped absently from the cheap bottle, scowling at what scant warmth it offered her. After draining half of its contents, she gave up on inebriation entirely and succumbed to her thoughts.

_You shouldn't have let her leave. But you also shouldn't have allowed her to bear the guilt. This was your damn fault, Isabela. You should've told her that. Instead, you kept your mouth shut and stared dumbly after her. Now she's walking around this dark, dangerous pit of city alone and upset. And distracted. Danger and distraction don't mix._

"Balls," she whispered, standing up from the desk and quickly grabbing her daggers. "Balls!" Concern fully grabbed hold of her now. She left her room and paced quickly down the hall, popping her head briefly into Varric's suite, only to find he wasn't there. If she was going to search, it would be wise to bring company. However, he dwarf wasn't in the bar either, telling stories or conducting a slanted game of cards. "Shit," she muttered to herself as she exited the tavern, hitting the streets of Lowtown by herself.

The pirate wasn't sure where to look. There was a possibility Hawke had simply gone home to collect her thoughts, but if that had been her intention, she more than likely would have said so. There was also a slight chance she had gone to visit one of their companions, though Isabela doubted it. _When she's upset she doesn't like to talk about it. Either she sulks it off or… she fights it off._ That was her best bet. Aveline took patrols in Lowtown three nights a week – Tuesdays being one such night. It was just a shot in the dark, but it seemed likely that Aya would seek out the Guard Captain to apprehend criminals.

She walked briskly to the docks, cursing under her breath every so often. When she made it to Aveline's post, she could see two figures leaning casually against a foundry wall, obscured by shadows. The tall, mannish figure was most undoubtedly the Guard Captain; however, she was unsure of the other. She simply knew, as she drew closer, that the other figure's stature, though petite and feminine, was too short to be Aya's. Hawke was slender and lean, not too tall, but just the perfect height, with soft curves in all the most appealing places. This figure was lanky and small.

She approached the Guard Captain forcing the steady, wistful smirk that usually adorned her face. Aveline recognized her immediately, cocking an indifferent, yet still slightly suspicious brow.

"Isabela," she greeted with a nod. "What trouble brings you here?" The pirate let out a brittle laugh, hoping the guardswoman didn't notice how awkward it sounded.

"Trouble? Please, Big Girl. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Right," Aveline drawled, pushing herself from the wall to scrutinize the rogue. "Because it seems so likely that you were just dropping by to say 'hello'."

"Doesn't it? I'm such a dear friend, aren't I?" Aveline rolled her eyes, observing Isabela curiously.

"Yes, the dearest… I'm surprised you're not with Hawke. You two have been near inseparable lately. It's quite annoying." Isabela had to stop herself from flinching.

"Well, actually, I came to ask if you've seen her in the past few hours." The Guard Captain narrowed her eyes, instantly knowing something was amiss. The pirate had hoped to avoid this, but she supposed she would have to be somewhat honest with Aveline.

"No… should I have?"

"Not exactly. I just thought maybe she would have come to see you."

"You have no idea where she is." It was a statement, not a question. "Isabela…" Her voice was full of reprove. She was so damn protective of Hawke – it seemed she'd simply been waiting for Isabela to slip up. "Did something happen between you two?" There was a brief flicker of guilt that passed through the pirate's eyes, one she was sure Aveline had noticed. The way the Guard Captain's lips pursed was proof of that. Feeling quickly fed up with the other woman's judgment, Isabela sighed agitatedly.

"Maybe. Look, I don't really want to go into detail. We had a little… disagreement… thing, and then she left. She didn't say where she was going or when she'd back. But it's been nearly two hours and I'm just kind of worried, okay? Kirkwall isn't safe at night. And she's not exactly known to keep her wits about her when she's upset. So… balls, will you just help me look for her?" The pirate had swallowed quite a bit of pride just to make this admission (to Aveline, of all people), and even more not to storm off while the guardswoman looked down on her with reproach. After a tense moment, Aveline finally sighed and nodded.

"Of course. I don't want her doing anything stupid." She turned quickly to the other guard and asked her to hold their post.

"Thanks," Isabela said tensely, nodding towards the northern region of the city. "My first guess would've been that she'd be with you or just skulking around Lowtown, but I haven't seen any trace of her." They began walking hurriedly, the rogue taking the lead.

"Lowtown has been particularly quiet tonight. If she were looking for a fight, which I suspect she might be, she wouldn't find it here."

"Then odds are she's gone up to Hightown."

"It's likely." They walked in silence, kicking at dirt and cobblestones along the way. Isabela could feel Aveline's eyes on her at times, with an unsurprising amount of disappointment. She'd never approved of the relationship between the pirate and Hawke, despite the apostate's good faith. She hated to think of the monumental "I told you so" the Guard Captain had given Aya when Isabela had bolted after the Qunari incident. Hawke had more than likely protested as she always had, in superfluous optimism, but Aveline's righteousness was persistent. And right now it was totally unwelcome.

They reached Hightown in little time, and cut a direct path towards the Hawke estate. Though it was doubtful, it was still possible that Aya had stopped home to sulk in front of the fire, or immerse herself in some of those awfully boring magical tomes she adored.

"So, tell me – exactly how upset was she when she left the Hanged Man," Aveline asked with a bit too much curiosity.

"Why do you need to know?"

"Well, the degree to which she was upset is also likely to be the degree of trouble she will land herself in." Isabela's hands twitched, eager to reach for her daggers and mindlessly begin to stab. It was an old habit and a fantastic consolation to the negative emotions she so sorely rejected.

"Yeah… well, she was pretty-" Isabela stopped short, barring her arm in order to halt the Guard Captain, as well. "Did you hear that?" Blood thrummed quickly in her ears as she strained to listen to the muffled cacophony in the distance.

"Hear what?" Suddenly, the succinct explosive sound that had first caught her attention erupted once again, likely somewhere to the west of them.

"That."

"Magic," Aveline said, her brow furrowing in determination as the pirate took off beside her. Isabela ducked into a side street to their left, following the small explosions that went off every twenty seconds or so. As they neared the source, she could hear vicious cries – some of open hostility and others of pain – coupled with the sounds of swinging blades. Most of the voices sounded masculine; however, there was one voice that would cry out briefly before every explosion – one distinctly feminine voice.

"Around this corner," Isabela called, motioning for Aveline to follow. The warrior complied, chasing after her down a long, dark alleyway. As they ran though, tall shadows looming over them, Isabela realized the sounds of battle had become farther away. The difference was hard to discern over the sound of her own heart pounding in her chest, but she recognized it, nonetheless. "Shit! Wrong direction!" She turned roughly on her heel and backtracked through the alleyway, sprinting down the opposite street.

"I hardly hear anything anymore," Aveline noted, her breath quick. It was true, the explosions had ceased and the pirate heard little else. This could either be very good or very bad. A few seconds later, they broke off from the street and reached the plaza where the racket had originated from. Isabela stopped, panting while her eyes swept rapidly over the area. Several bodies littered the ground, mostly charred and even a few that had been frozen and shattered. Then, the rogue's eyes settled upon a very familiar frame standing rigidly above the body of a mangled man.

The Champion stood with her back to them, her head hung as she seemed to appraise the damage she had caused. She was stock still and blanketed in shadows, though Isabela was still able to make out her blonde tresses and favorite wooden staff. This apostate was unmistakably Hawke. She appeared to tremble slightly, perhaps still affected by the adrenaline of battle or a great exertion of mana. And though she did not turn to face them, Isabela let out a sigh of relief.

"Aya! Bloody Hell-" The rest of the pirate's words seemed to disintegrate as she watched the mage fall to her knees, shaking. Something wasn't right.

"Hawke," Aveline called, running to her friend's side. Isabela was even quicker though, reaching Aya first with just a few large bounds, and dropping immediately to her side. What she saw filled her with a fear stronger than any she had felt in a long time.

Hawke's beautiful features had twisted into a mask of tremendous pain as her hands curled white-knuckled around the dagger lodged into her midsection. Isabela couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips, her mind suddenly going blank for the first time that night. She knew there were frantic words spilling forth from Aveline's lips – questions or orders perhaps – but all she could register was the wounded mage's ragged breaths, and the five words she struggled so hard to force from herself: "Get it… out of me."

"We will, Hawke, we will. Don't worry," Isabela babbled, hardly even aware of what she was saying. She allowed her right arm to encircle Aya's waist while her left hand clasped the two that gripped the blade so fiercely. She was startled by how cold they felt. _"You can let it go,"_ she whispered soothingly into her lover's ear, her own voice so hasty and fearful. Aya collapsed into her and allowed her quivering hands to fall stiffly into her lap.

"Lay her down flat," Aveline calmly instructed. Isabela nodded and laid the apostate on the ground as gently as possible, cringing as the action elicited a low groan.

"How should we do this," she asked heatedly, stroking the mage's hair and face lightly. Aveline looked down at her friend, the consternation apparent in her green eyes as her hands wrapped around the hilt of the dagger.

"I'm going to pull it out. You need to hold her down. It's going to hurt and it will be worse for her if she squirms." The pirate nodded as she felt Aya tense beneath her. She tried to comfort her with gentle caresses; however, the mage was stringently aware of the imminent pain of the blade's removal. "Take off your sash and give it to me. As soon as the blade is out, I'll fasten it over the wound and carry her back to the estate. You'll retrieve Anders." Isabela shook her head.

"No. I'll take her-"

"You're faster than me, Isabela. And you know Darktown better than I do. It'll be quicker if you find Anders." Reluctantly, Isabela nodded. She didn't like the idea of leaving Aya in this state, but realized that, rationally, it made the most sense for her to fetch Anders. It would be better for Hawke that way.

"Fine." She removed her sash and handed it over to the Guard Captain.

"Ready?" Their gazes met for a second before she secured her hands over Aya's shoulders. She leaned down over the whimpering mage and pressed her lips softly to her cheek.

"_This is going to hurt,"_ she whispered apologetically, then lifted her head and gave Aveline a nod. The guardswoman nodded back determinedly before fixing her gaze on the blade and flexing her fingers. Isabela held her breath as the dagger was ripped from the Champion's stomach, releasing it with a wince as the mage writhed and emitted an agonized cry. Her eyes were clenched shut and brimming with tears as the pirate gazed nervously upon her face. Aveline wasted no time in pressing the sash to Aya's wound, but Isabela hesitated.

"There's no time to waste, Isabela. Go!" She cupped her lover's distressed face a moment longer, her lips once again tingling with the urgency of several unspoken words. There was so much she wanted to say, or so much she should, but she knew she could not speak. Instead, she stood up and ran as fast as her feet would carry her, not looking back.

She told herself to stop thinking, to do nothing but hope – hope that she was quick enough. Because, if she wasn't… well, that was just something she could not, and did not want to imagine.

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**Please continue to review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Yeah, so I typed this one up much quicker than the others (I hope it's not too rushed). It's pretty heavy on the angst, I'll admit. But there's a nice little bit of fluff in there towards the end : ) I certainly hope you like it!**

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_Running for your own life is nothing like running for the life of another. _Isabela ruminated over this thought as she and Anders sprinted towards the Hawke estate. Their legs had been possessed with a fervor unlike any they had known before. The pirate, for one, was certain she'd never run faster in all her years, and was surprised the mage was able to keep pace. However, to his credit, he was almost as vehemently opposed to letting the Champion suffer as Isabela was. _Almost. _

It was no secret that Anders had had eyes for Aya since the day they'd met. Justice was adamantly loath to any feelings the healer might hold for his blonde-haired apostate companion; nonetheless, in spite of the constant soapbox he hoisted himself upon, Anders was only a man. And Hawke was incessantly amiable and always helpful to his cause. Whether he had actually fallen in love with Aya, Isabela could never be sure. He had a tendency towards masking his attraction to her with his never-ending sermon on the plight of mages and what he considered her "irresponsible" uses of magic. Still, he lusted after and cared for her, perhaps deeply, and the envious glares he often cast in the pirate's direction were a testament of it.

Isabela knew that Anders would be devastated if anything tragic were to happen to their mighty Champion. The way his worn boots clattered against the cobblestone and nearly kicked in the estate door echoed his fears. But no matter how he felt, he could not understand the horror that had gripped the usually blithe rogue.

The gravity in Kirkwall seemed to swarm about Aya Hawke like a moth fatally drawn to a flame. Since she'd made the decision to flee to the city of chains all those years ago, she'd been weighted with a burden that clung to her instantly. First she'd lost Bethany, her baby sister, and though nearly seven years had passed since that solemn misfortune, Hawke still felt the sting of it quite poignantly. Even when Isabela and the apostate were alone, entwined nakedly in the most open and intimate of positions, Aya could hardly bring herself to verbalize the images that so frequently haunted her while she slept – images of the young Hawke lying crushed and crumpled upon the cold, Ferelden ground.

She had managed to share with Isabela one secret regret regarding Bethany's death, however. To this day, her heart still ached to admit that she'd never been able to give her little sister the proper burial that she'd deserved. _"Even the wicked are deserving of their burial rites. And Bethany… she was as far from wicked as anyone could've been. She was beautiful and pure and so painfully empathetic. Not resentful like Carver, or jaded like me. She was the best of us. And her body was left to be picked apart by Darkspawn, with only a few hasty blessings to ease her soul's departure." _That was the most Aya had ever said about her sister.

She lamented the fact that her family had left a trail of death from Ferelden to the Free Marches: her father buried in a field in Lothering, her sister deserted on a blight-ravaged mountainside, and her mother buried in a Hightown cemetery. On her more morose days – days that grew in frequency at the insistence of Meredith and Orsino – Hawke's good humor would darken and she would muse that the closest thing she had to a guardian angel was the reaper himself, for he always seemed to be close on her heels. On these days, the mage would hang upon Isabela as though holding on for dear life – in a lot of ways, she probably was.

Death was as much a companion to the Champion as Aveline or Varric. Regardless, Isabela had never allowed herself to believe that Aya would actually die on her. She was Kirkwall's bloody hero, after all. She carried herself with such an air of faith and naïve invincibility at times, it was hard to picture her as anything but brilliantly and blindingly alive. Yet as the rogue thought back to the sight of Hawke's fine features contorted into a ghostly pallid mask of agony, her softly toned stomach torn and gushing the very life-blood that sustained her, she had to realize the lurid possibility of Aya's death.

That possibility alone left a cold hollow blooming in the center of her chest – a sickly cavity that threatened to consume her joy, determination, and worst of all, her love. She could not dwell on this taunting gulf, but she knew: if it were allowed to come to fruition, a chasm would burgeon down her center, perforating her being. She wasn't sure if it was something she could ever fully recover from.

As she and Anders bounded through Hawke's unusually chilled home, greeted by a frantically sullen Bodahn and his now quiet boy, Isabela forced these despairing scenarios from her mind. The present demanded her full attention and she would not – could not – allow herself to be distracted. It was of the utmost importance that she be strong, at least so that she could face the sight that awaited her behind the closed doors of Hawke's bedroom.

When they entered the room, Isabela's eyes immediately sought Aya's form. She lay in bed unmoving, the quilts stripped and white linen sheets heaped at her feet, speckled with blood. The pain that had twisted her face before was still present, though subdued. A thick shadow, cast from both the canopy and the looming Guard Captain veiled the apostate's stiff body, confusing the natural rise and fall of her chest. For a few seconds, the pirate was absolutely paralyzed, watching and waiting for Hawke's lungs to stir any sort of movement. Finally, Aya's chest heaved as she drew in a slow, shallow breath, causing Isabela's heart to skip a beat. For now she at least knew she was alive.

She followed Anders to Hawke's bedside, gaining a closer look at the apostate's mangled midsection. Her leather armor had been anxiously severed from her belly after the dagger's removal, and now her tunic had been ripped open, as well. Soaked red cloths had been tied around Aya's torso; however, Aveline no longer applied pressure to them. Isabela eyed the guardswoman nervously, inquiring as to why.

"Did you slow the bleeding?" Aveline turned to the pirate, her face ashen and lips pursed in a solemn, almost guilty frown. Anders deftly began to unwrap the viscous, bloody shreds concealing the wound, his hands already slightly aglow. The warrior placed a rough hand on his forearm as he did so, causing him to halt.

"Wait," she demanded, stress clear in her voice. Anders turned to her wearing an irked, worrisome expression similar to that worn by the pirate. Before either could question her, Aveline continued. "You should know… I couldn't slow the bleeding. I had to _stop _it."

"How-" The guardswoman turned sharply to the fire where her blade sat upon the hearth, tinged with a fierce red.

"I had no choice but to cauterize it."

"Oh," Anders replied, his eyes wide and frantic as he continued to undress the wound. Isabela cringed, crossing to the opposite side of the bed so she could sit with Aya while the healer removed her bandages. As she took her place beside the unconscious mage, she immediately reached for her hand. _Colder and clammier than before._

"I'm not sure if that was the appropriate thing to do medically. But she was shaking violently and I knew she was close to bleeding out. I didn't know what else to do, to save her-"

"Shit, Aveline," Isabela interrupted quietly as the last layer of cloth was removed, revealing Hawke's stomach. The wound was an absolute mess of charred tissues and red, tender flesh, all swollen into a blistered crease. The cauterization had obviously not been clean, as criss-crossing burns were etched into the length of the injury. The supple skin surrounding the gash had not made it out entirely unscathed either – several smaller burns marred the surrounding area. It was a fleshy ruin, and the pirate could only hope that the pain of it had knocked Aya unconscious before she'd had a chance to fully register the agony.

"I know, damnit. What the Hell else should I have done?" Anger spiked involuntarily in the guardswoman's voice, provoking an aggravated groan from Anders. He was digging through the satchel he had slung hastily over his shoulder before leaving the clinic, pulling out a few different balms. His fingertips were alight with a soft, blue haze as he uncapped them with great focus.

"I don't know! But _this_ looks like a bloody mess!"

"If you two are going to argue, take it outside. I need you to leave me while I work anyway." Anders' voice had been stricken with an eerie, almost possessed calm, though Isabela could sense the anger hidden beneath. She was prepared to object to his demand, not wanting to leave Aya's side, but he stopped her. "That's an order, _Isabela._ I'll need the utmost concentration in order to determine and repair her internal damage. Then… I'll see what I can do about the scarring." She hated the way he said her name with such bitterness. Her initial reaction was to remain in the room stubbornly, out of spite. But for Aya's sake, the least she could do was swallow her pride and comply.

She took one last, lingering glance at Hawke, drawing in her appearance. The apostate stirred frequently, muscles twitching in both physical pain and exhaustion. As Isabela squeezed Aya's icy hand between her own, she wondered if, despite her lack of unconsciousness, she maintained some sense of awareness in her current state. She wondered if Hawke knew that the pirate was by her side, and that she longed to remain so, regardless of Anders' petulant request. She wondered if her presence brought even a small amount of comfort to the mage, or if her thoughts were still agonized.

Sighing, Isabela stood rigidly from the bed and strode out of the room, Aveline following close behind. She paid the Guard Captain little attention, leaning over the marble railing that overlooked the front parlor and closing her eyes tightly. She did well to bind her emotions in a taut coil within her stomach, reserving them for later self-deprecation. She was a strong woman indeed – in her life she had been both witness and accomplice to an exceptional amount of misery. But if she allowed herself to dwell on her guilt now, if only for a minute, her strength would deteriorate completely.

She heard Hawke's door shut heavily behind her, followed by Aveline's boots clunking against the stone floor. In the next instant, a commanding hand was placed on her shoulder, turning her around gruffly. When Isabela's gaze met the other woman's, she was faced with a cold, contained fury that was directed solely at her. Her first defense was to scowl, but even that felt particularly weak under the Guard Captain's glare.

"Come with me. We need to talk."

"Oh, do we," the rogue retorted, her voice slightly wavering.

"_Yes,"_ Aveline spat out between gritted teeth. On that note, Isabela didn't dare say another word. The Guard Captain was known for having a fiery temper, especially pertaining to offenses against her friends. Her gaze alone was incensed almost beyond anything Isabela had seen her wear before, and she had no desire to galvanize the warrior further.

Aveline led her into the large room adjacent to the parlor, which served as Hawke's library and work space. She shut the door behind them, perhaps with more force than she had intended, and immediately rounded on the pirate. The warrior was at least four inches taller than Isabela, though it now appeared to be four feet as she towered over her glowering, finger pointed brusquely. The rogue couldn't help but gulp, nibbling anxiously on her lower lip and suddenly feeling very much like a child. There was no sarcasm to be had now, none of her usual scot-free aversion. In all honesty, she was legitimately afraid of the accusations Aveline would throw at her.

"Maker, this is such a mess," the guard began, her voice booming through the large room. "And very well could have been a complete disaster! You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I know that," Isabela scoffed, heat rising to her face. "What do you take me for? Some kind of fool?"

"You know what I take you for, you selfish whore. It isn't much." The stringency of Aveline's words stung Isabela deeper than she had expected. Vehemence erupted quickly in her gut like a roaring flame, and before she had a chance to stop herself, she was swinging an open palm towards the Guard Captain's face. Aveline must have expected this, however, as she caught the pirate's wrist roughly in her grip and squeezed with bruising force.

"Try it again," she admonished, her green eyes dangerously narrowed. "But don't think I won't charge you with assault against the Captain of the Guard. Because damnit, I will, and when Hawke wakes up, you'll be in a jail cell." Isabela fought against Aveline's grasp, feeling the beginnings of unexpected tears searing the backs of her eyes. She wouldn't cry – she almost never did – but her body wanted to, nonetheless.

"What do you want from me," she asked, her voice suddenly hoarse.

"All I _wanted_ from you was to treat Hawke properly. I'd be damned to approve of your relationship with her, but I accepted it, regardless. I had to – she's my dearest friend." There was once again pain and guilt welling in the guardswoman's eyes – guilt for what, Isabela was not certain. She imagined that when Aveline had pressed her red-hot blade to Aya's wound, the action had been tremendously anguishing for both of them. But there was a more deeply rooted guilt hidden in her depths, as well, as though she'd somehow fallen short in protecting Hawke. "You failed, Isabela. In that one task. You only had to treat her well, the way she deserved, and you failed. And because you failed, she," Aveline paused for a moment, conflicted with the urge to cry and to simultaneously slap the pirate. "She almost died! Andraste, you have no idea how close she was…"

Isabela _didn't_ know how close Aya had been to dying, and quite frankly, she didn't want to know. It was hard enough for her to look upon the mage's disfigured stomach knowing that, had she acted differently that day, more faithfully, this unfortunate situation would have been avoided. It was hard enough for her to bear her remorse without excuse, to admit to her own failure, without fully acknowledging the consequences her actions had almost warranted. She felt confident that Anders would heal Aya now, but had she died… Isabela would've accepted the loss as a fault of her own. Though this admission might sate Aveline or Anders' resentment towards her, the weight of it would surely drag her down.

Her eyes stared vacantly ahead as she took a seat next to the empty fireplace and allowed her head to fall into her hands. Her eyes still burned with unshed tears, and she told herself not to let them fall. However, as strong as she was, her composure and resolve had disintegrated rapidly under the crushing weight of her own guilt and she could no longer contain herself. She moved her hand over her mouth just in time to muffle a sob. Aveline didn't look at her, and she was grateful for it.

She hadn't cried in years – mostly because she hadn't felt the need to, but also because she absolutely refused to do so. When she was much younger she cried as often and excessively as any child. But after losing her father and being abandoned by her mother, she realized tears were a weakness she could not afford. To allow herself to cry felt entirely too much like allowing her negativity to wrestle her into submission. Perhaps now her own guilt and self-loathing had brought out something of a masochist in her, for felt she deserved her tears – she deserved the weakness and punishment they offered her.

For several minutes she sobbed as Aveline stood by silently, refusing to look at her. Finally, she managed to regain control over the torrent of unruly emotion that spouted from her, and rubbed furiously at her eyes. The room was deathly quiet when she lifted her aggrieved face and turned to the warrior who still would not glance in her direction.

"You have no idea how sorry I am, Aveline. Not just for this, but for every shitty thing that I have ever done to her. I never _wanted_ to hurt her. I know I've wronged her in so many ways over the years, but you have to believe me when I say that it was never my intention. It's just… so hard not to be me." She turned and stared wistfully into the cold, dark fireplace before whispering, "I was a good person once. When I was younger."

Aveline couldn't stop herself from asking, with a bit too much snap in her voice, "What happened?" Isabela laughed caustically.

"A lot of unfortunate things. And the only way I could think to protect myself from them was to become immoral and deceitful and frivolous – someone who wouldn't care if they were abandoned or abused. There may have been a better way, but I was too green to see it. I just wanted to be free. Eventually, that is what I became. But by that time, I just couldn't shake myself of the façade I'd created. And suddenly, I wasn't just _pretending_ to be a wench. I'd become one." She stood and faced Aveline, her expression full of remorse. "I know what Aya deserves, Big Girl. You don't have to tell me: it's something far better than what I am. For that reason, I wish she'd never fallen in love with me. I tried to make her see it, too. That's why I left her after she dueled the Arishok for me." Aveline's brow quirked in surprise.

"You left her… to make her move on?" Isabela nodded solemnly. "So why did you come back then?"

"I was being selfish – no surprise there, huh?" The pirate's laughter was truly bitter, something the Guard Captain had not expected. "I didn't want to admit it, but I'd fallen for her, too. I wanted to forget about her, but I just couldn't. I figured that if I came back and saw that she'd moved on, perhaps found someone new, I could put the whole thing behind me. But from that first encounter we had after I returned… I knew she still loved me. She hadn't moved on at all, and so I couldn't either. Instead, I stayed, and just hoped that I could be good enough for her." She paused for a moment, choosing her next words carefully. "You might find this hard to believe, but I _did_ try to treat her right. I tried very hard, though… I guess it was only a matter of time before I made a mistake. And I did – a ridiculously stupid mistake, which is entirely to blame for what happened to Hawke tonight. I admit it's my fault."

Aveline was shocked, to say the least, and Isabela knew it. She'd expected the pirate to fight back, to snidely avoid any accusations, and defend her own innocence. But she had most certainly _not_ expected her to take responsibility for her actions, nor had she expected her to make such personal confessions about herself.

"So… what do you plan on doing now?" The pirate suddenly snapped towards the guardswoman, her previous ire renewed.

"Well, I'm certainly not going to run off on her again. So, if that's what you were thinking, to the void with you. Because-" Aveline held up her palms, trying to assuage the other woman.

"Okay, okay… can you really blame me for wondering?" Isabela parted her lips, a very loaded "yes" at the ready, but stopped herself. Her features suddenly slackened as she dropped her head to leer at the floor again.

"No, I suppose not. But don't be mistaken, I wouldn't do that to her again. Ever. I'm still trying to be better, Aveline, and no matter how awful I feel over this whole situation, I won't let it deter me. I'm going to be by her side when she wakes up. I'll do anything she asks of me, not just because I owe it to her, but because I _want_ to." Aveline nodded, not necessarily feeling pleased with Isabela, but appeased, nonetheless. Only time would tell if Isabela would remain true to her word, the warrior supposed, but in the interim, her intentions were respectable. And as long as the wench took care of her friend… well, she could forgive her.

* * *

Isabela had to give Anders credit: he may be a preachy shit, but he was a remarkable healer. It had taken him a little over an hour of work (an exceptional amount of time, given the expediency of magic), but he had repaired all the internal damage Aya had sustained, and had cleaned up her belly wonderfully. A pale, four inch scar would remain, forever marring the otherwise creamy smoothness of her stomach, but compared to the blistered mess that had blemished her previously, it was a welcome mark. The pirate marveled at his handiwork, her body wrought with intense relief as her slender fingers crept lightly over the wound.

She sighed when Aya did not stir, leaning back into the mound of pillows she'd propped behind the mage. It was nearing dawn now, and though their companions had left hours earlier, Isabela found she was unable to sleep. The guilt and remorse had dulled into a low throb, rarely piercing her consciousness as it was replaced with a more pleasant relief and weariness. Still, she could not feel at ease until she was once again able to look into Hawke's emerald eyes, rested and well-aware of their surroundings. When that happened, she would kiss her Champion both ferocious and gentle, and envelop her with apologies. She expected that the apostate would be, at first, angered. But she would do everything in her power to trounce that irritation, if only to see her lover smile. Then, maybe, she could begin to absolve herself of the self-loathing she felt.

However, she really couldn't be sure when Aya would wake up. She was healed, yes, but had lost so much blood that Anders had doubted she'd be fit to leave her bed for another week. Not only that, but she'd been running a slight fever for at least the past two hours, something Anders had also suspected might occur. Considering she very rarely was able to rest without the interruption of her nagging virtues, one might think the Champion would seize this time to acquire some much needed sleep. Unfortunately, she was so damn stubborn and persistent that Isabela half expected her to would wake up a minute from now and force herself back on her feet. In that case, the pirate would have to wrestle her back into bed (it wouldn't be the first time).

She tried to relax into Aya's side and rest. Slumber was unlikely, but it seemed an admirable goal. And if nothing else, she could at least rest her weary eyes for a while. She gripped Hawke's hand in her own, comforted that it had gained back much of the warmth it had lost before, even if that warmth could be partially ascribed to fever. Normally, she would have felt terribly anxious, simply worrying about what she would say to the mage when she awoke. However, she was so eager to speak to her again – alive and well – that she could care less whether or not Hawke needed to hate her for a few minutes.

An indeterminate amount of time passed with Isabela breathing slowly into the crook of Aya's neck. It could've been a short while, but as she lay there unmoving, resisting every urge to think or berate herself, it felt extremely long. Eventually, she was shaken from her blank trance when Hawke's body jerked abruptly beneath her with a sputtering cough. The pirate snapped to attention, sitting up and placing her palm over Aya's feverish forehead. The apostate was still warm, still clammy and flushed, and now groaning as she clamped her eyes shut in pain.

"Aya," Isabela whispered, pressing her lips softly to the top of the mage's head. Hawke continued to groan as the muscles in her body tensed. "It's alright. Open your eyes." A quick whimper died on her lips as her face relaxed, and finally, Aya's eyes drifted slowly open. Half-lidded and dazed, her stunning emeralds gaped upon the canopy overhead, and then turned slightly to view Isabela. There was a brief flicker in her pupils as she regarded the pirate, and Isabela was glad to discern that it was not of fury. In fact, as she registered her lover's presence, a very subtle smile tugged at the corner of Aya's mouth. For one fleeting moment, as Isabela realized the beauty of that small smirk, she again felt like crying for reasons she didn't understand. However, the moment passed, as did the feeling, and she leaned down to brush her lips against Hawke's in a short, chaste kiss. That simple action seemed to set her on fire, but she withdrew quickly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Well," her voice was dry and hoarse, both from a lack of hydration and from crying out in agony the night prior. "I've been deader." Isabela gawked at Aya for a moment before realizing that the wounded mage had actually had the audacity to answer her with a joke. She wanted to be annoyed, but the awful comedic timing was so characteristic of her Champion that it actually made her heart swell, just a bit.

"Glad to hear it," the rogue cleared her throat. "I'm so very happy that your poor sense of humor has remained intact throughout this whole ordeal." Hawke raised a shaky hand to her heart in feigned injury.

"'Poor sense of humor'? Please, Bela. You've no need to wound me. I already have a hole in my stomach." Isabela was unable to stop herself from cringing at that one, and she knew Aya had noticed.

"Aya… that's not funny." Hawke removed her hand from her heart and placed it gently on Isabela's cheek, her voice coming out weaker than she intended.

"I'm sorry." The pirate shrugged away from Hawke's warm touch, shaking her head as she placed it agitatedly in her hand. To hear Aya apologize to _her_ in such a wounded manner – both physically and emotionally – was extremely painful. "What is it?"

"Please don't apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for." She choked on her words just slightly, causing concern to wash over Aya's face. She tried to sit up, but Isabela stopped her. If she was going to cry, she didn't want Hawke to get a good look at her. But damnit, she was trying so hard not to. "_I'm_ the one that needs to apologize. This whole mess was my fault. I'm so sorry."

"No," Aya rebuked, "I was stupid. Not just for getting myself caught up in a fight I couldn't win, but for pushing you-"

"Damnit, Hawke, are you kidding me?" Her words were far harsher than she had intended, startling the wounded mage. "I know you don't want to admit I'm such a piece of shit, but you need to stop blaming yourself. You're too bloody _good_ to blame yourself." She stood up suddenly and began pacing the length of the bed, unaware of Aya's protest.

"Isabela-"

"What happened with Zevran was not the result of you pushing too hard, or asking too much! You're so damn lenient with me, it's impossible. Sometimes I honestly _wish_ you would push me harder or make ridiculous demands of my personality. I need you to, because I can't trust myself to do these things. I'm not like you Hawke," her voice was laden with a sorrow that made the apostate ache to hold her. "I wish I were. At the very least, I wish I were good enough for you. I'm trying to be, I swear. But, sometimes-"

"Isabela, stop it," Hawke demanded, groaning slightly from the force of her own words. Startled, Isabela spun around on her heel, and in the firelight, Aya could see a single tear glinting on her cheek. The mage sighed, pained and exasperated as she reached out a hand in the pirate's direction. "Please sit," she requested softly. Isabela complied, wiping the moisture from her cheek as she did so. She took the rogue's hand in her own, attempting to bridge some of the distance she noticed Isabela had placed between them. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"No," she shook her head, unable to keep the second tear from spilling forth. "I need to stop doing this to _you_. I need to change."

"Do what you need to, Isabela. I'm going to love you no matter who or what you are. But if you really do want to change, you need to stop berating yourself. You're limiting your own capabilities by telling yourself you'll never be able to."

There was a long pause before Isabela turned to Aya and quietly asked, with just a hint of disbelief, "Have you really forgiven me for what I did?" Hawke sighed, tugging on the pirate's arm and forcing her closer. Exhaustion was slowly starting to overtake her, but she refused to succumb until she had calmed Isabela.

"I won't lie; the thought of it still hurts me. I'm sure it'll sting for a while. I mean, hey, I'm by no means perfect. I'm as susceptible to jealousy as the next person. But what we have between us isn't some passing fancy. This is love, and it'll take _a lot_ more than one dumb mistake to make me give up on that. Or to give up on you. I believe you when you tell me you want to change – I can see it in your eyes." There was a sudden impish spark that niggled its way into Aya's features, causing the pirate's slow stream of tears to cease. "And the woman I fell for _always_ gets what she wants." Isabela chuckled as Hawke reached up to gently wipe away her tears. "I can tell now that you _want_ to kiss me. So what are you waiting for?"

"Nothing," Isabela breathily replied, leaning down to devour the mage's lips in a hungry kiss. It was a simple act – so full of apology and acceptance and unabashed passion – yet it seemed to perfectly convey the complex longing both women felt for each other. The pirate could've sworn she felt a very real and subtle electric current coursing through her veins as their kiss deepened, Aya's fragile body suddenly teeming with energy. It made them both feel so very alive, with joy and ardor; yet in the midst of this thrilling, living sensation, Isabela could feel pieces of herself begin to fade. For Aya's strength and adoration, though still sometimes a mystery to her, possessed the innate ability to invigorate all of the goodness in the pirate, while simultaneously rendering inert the wickedness she fought against.

"Aya," Isabela pulled away, drawing in a deep breath. "I love you. Very much."

"You better." They smiled into each other, laughing lightly as though their lives were not dreadfully hindered by the plight of Kirkwall. They laughed as though Aya would never have to fear the wrath of the templars or the influence of the circle mages. They laughed as though Isabela would never make another mistake or feel the abhorrent throb of guilt. They laughed in spite of the truth, thinking wishfully and believing it, because love made them ready to accept any foolish, improbable thing. They laughed and clung to each happily. The gravity still hung all too conspicuously around them, but their tender kisses made it possible to ignore the weight entirely.

Tomorrow Aya would be wracked with pain; Isabela with lassitude. The coming weeks would bring recovery and an abundance of missed heroics to compensate for. Little did they know that the coming weeks would bring so much more, so much worse. But had they known that morning, they may not have cared. For that morning they had each other, and nothing could intrude on that. Sometimes that was enough.

* * *

**There you have it... hopefully I'll get lucky and I'll be able to finish chapter 7 within the next few days. In the meantime, please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Well, I planned to have this chapter finished sooner, but as usual, life got in the way. However, I also didn't plan on it being quite this long... it got away with me. I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

"You know, Bela," Aya mused one lazy morning as she neared the end of her recovery, "you can't let any of the others catch you pampering me like this." The corner of the pirate's mouth quirked into an affectionate grin as she focused upon the apple she'd been slicing. Setting down her dagger, she turned around to view her Champion. The mage lay upon her side, curled with her knees drawn gingerly to her belly and her arm resting under her chin. Her eyes remained half-lidded and dreamy with lethargy as Isabela popped one of the apple slices into her mouth. She had no qualms with feeding Hawke – in fact, there was a part of her that quite liked taking care of her – nonetheless, she could imagine the endless ribbing she would receive if the others knew how horribly soft her hardened heart had become.

"It'll be our little secret," she replied, a hint of seduction creeping into her voice as she leaned down to seize the juice dribbling off of Hawke's mouth with her own lips. Aya grinned, allowing her eyes to shut softly while emitting a contented sigh. "Besides, this 'pampering' thing is only temporary – until you're officially off bed-rest." Isabela grinned when Hawke's lips puckered into an irresistible pout that was so petulant and uncharacteristic of her, she couldn't even manage to sustain it. "Nobility need no spoiling, anyhow."

"Well, then," Hawke's eyes fluttered open just slightly, catching the effervescent shreds of sunlight that drifted in through the open window. Isabela found it particularly breathtaking how the luminosity seemed to tangle within the mage's long, dark eyelashes as they swept over her gleaming emeralds. For a brief moment, she lost hold of the playful flirtations that had possessed her just moments before, now completely rapt in the effortless beauty of the woman lying beneath her. Gorgeous or not, she was sure she would've fallen for Aya regardless; but, oh… the Rivaini – a beauty in her own exotic right – was so lucky to have fallen for someone quite as lovely as Hawke. "Just don't think of me as Kirkwall nobility. Think of me as… the poor Ferelden apostate I am at heart. Then you should have no problem spoiling me."

"Oh, really?" Isabela inched closer to Aya, feeling both amused by her and captivated by her innocent allure.

"Yes, indeed. I've had such a _hard_ life you know…" Isabela chuckled, setting down the plate of fruit and lying next to Hawke as she drawled on.

"Do you think that's going to work on me?" Aya narrowed her eyes as a mischievous grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. This, in particular, was the pirate's favorite grin.

"Maybe not… how much longer can I continue to play the 'wounded' card for?"

"Well," Isabela said as the mage nestled into the crook of her neck, teasing the flesh there with a few sensual puffs of warm breath, "we know you can move around okay on your own… when you want to. Anders wants us to visit him at his clinic tomorrow sometime. He'll redress your wound again, and if he feels you've healed well enough, you'll officially be off bed-rest."

"Then no more milking the whole 'impaled mage' thing?"

"No more."

"That's a shame," Aya said, her voice a bit more sultry as she nibbled on the flesh of Isabela's neck. "Because my whole recovery has been so _satisfying._ I'm going to hate to see it end." The pirate grinned wickedly, drawing Hawke as close to her as she could and making sure that their flesh converged in all the most delightful places. Relieved, she had no doubts that the mage's health had returned to normal. Aya may not be quite as spry as she had previously been, but she was now bolstered with renewed energy and near painless movements. If nothing else, her revitalized sex drive proved this fact – Isabela was extremely pleased, even if she knew the Champion was perhaps taking advantage of her respite (that remained another of their little secrets).

"Not every bit of it has to end," Isabela breathed desirably into the apostate's ear, eliciting a particularly agreeable shiver. "For instance, I would be more than happy to continue giving you baths." She snaked her tongue over Aya's earlobe, noting how her breathing seemed to hitch at the gesture. _"As long as you extend the same courtesy." _She tantalized her lover's ear even further with a gentle bite, provoking a moan Aya simply could not stifle. This happened to be one her most sensitive spots, and Isabela knew it.

She'd certainly expected Hawke to melt under her teasing actions; however, she had not expected the injured woman to react by flipping her over and pinning her swiftly to the bed. Isabela gaped at her with slight surprise and concern. Aya could handle herself, for sure, but if consumed by passion, she would be more apt to overexert her still healing body. In spite of her own overwhelming lust, the pirate conceded to issue a warning to the mage, albeit weakly. "Careful, sweet thing. You're technically still on the mend-" All futile words of caution were lost completely as Aya bit down passionately on Isabela's neck, causing a heady groan to overpower the last of her warning.

"_I know, love. Don't worry," _she whispered, leaning down to kiss her pirate fiercely. There was such an intense hunger and adoration in her lips that Isabela was left reeling. Suddenly, Aya pulled away, her eyes glimmering devilishly. _"Besides, what's pleasure without a little bit of pain?"_ The sensuous pirate's head spun, inflamed with delicious heat and seduction as the deft Champion began to fervently tug at her clothing. She could only smirk, realizing she had clearly been far too gentle with the mage in light of recent events, and was more than happy to allow Hawke to take the matter into her own hands. _Well, I suppose it is about time that she takes care of _me_…_

* * *

The following day, Isabela and Hawke made their way to Anders' clinic, as requested. When they left the estate, Aya, though still seeming somewhat weary, linked arms with the pirate and walked with a rather particular liveliness. Isabela assumed this was because the mage had not left her home in over a week, save for a few hours spent reading in the garden, and now simply basked in the lovely spring weather. As they walked, the sun was fixed high in the flawless pall of azure overhead, casting off warmth and shiny beams of light that seemed to ricochet endlessly into the vast blue. Previous bed-rest notwithstanding, Aya had always been green enough to take an excessive amount of pleasure in a sunny day. That's not to say she was juvenile – she had merely maintained enough unadulterated innocence to enjoy something as simple as sunshine or freshly bloomed flowers. This, in spite of all the misery and grief she had endured over the years. To Isabela, that was a strength unlike any she had ever known. _Someday, it might save all our asses. _It also injected the Champion's fatigued step with a unique vivacity.

She knew Hawke detested having to trade in the vibrant sunshine for the dim, dank streets of Darktown. Such a change in scenery tended to bring out the tired and restless aspects of the mage more than Isabela had liked. She certainly hoped that Anders would make haste in his checkup so that they could continue to enjoy the weather. It would be lovely to take a stroll down to the Alienage to visit Merrill, or through the Lowtown Bazaar so Aya could purchase the new armor she so sorely needed. Of course, she _expected_ Anders to take his time just as he did on any occasion when he was granted the chance to examine an injured, scantily clad Hawke. She suspected these occasions were some of the healer's favorite. Lucky for him, with the amount of fighting the Champion did, they occurred bi-weekly, at the very least.

Anders was waiting for them when they arrived. He greeted Aya with a smile and bright, adoring eyes, just as he always did, whereas he greeted the pirate with a tempered scowl. She, of course, in an effort to pique his annoyance, offered him an infectious, shit-eating grin and clapped him on the shoulder. She could've made a show of removing Aya's tunic languorously so that he could change her bandages, but opted against it. Anders may aggravate her to no end, but Hawke considered him one of her dearest friends. If only for that reason, she would gladly play nice.

"You look like you're getting around rather well, Hawke. How do you feel?" Aya wore a modest grin as she took a seat on one of the clinic's decrepit chairs.

"Better. The sunshine helps… among other things." She shot a quick, devious glance in Isabela's direction. Thankfully, Anders did not seem to catch her suggestion, as his back was turned. When he faced the two women again, he was armed with bandages and salve, and quickly took a seat next to the Champion. He motioned his hands towards her tunic, but stopped short, clearing his throat and hazarding a brief, sidelong glance in the pirate's direction.

"Could you, uh-"

"Lift my shirt," the apostate supplied lightly, trying not to chuckle. She had a rather skilled propensity for causing Anders to blush. It was never her intention to make him feel awkward or embarrassed, but it seemed, nonetheless, he was always going red in the face when in her presence. "You don't have to act so nervous about touching my midsection, Anders. Bela isn't going to lance you for giving me a simple checkup." The man made a poor show of being calm and aloof as his fingers quivered just slightly when they met Aya's pale flesh. She of course noticed, but pretended not to, for his sake.

"Give me a break," he groused, feigning annoyance. "I know Isabela isn't going to try and lance me."

"It's true," the rogue said as she stood behind Hawke, lazily twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger. "Though I'm not so sure you're not going to try and lance our dear Champion." Isabela smiled wickedly at her own lascivious remark when it appeared that Anders' eyes would pop out of his skull. Aya seemed nearly as mortified when she turned back rigidly to glare at her crude lover, though the pirate suspected she was also biting back a _tiny _laugh.

"Isabela," she chided. The brash woman bared her hands defensively, laughing loudly at the healer's expense. He merely leered at his own hands as they remained frozen on the bandages he'd begun to unwrap. For a moment, Hawk was afraid he would erupt, Justice having been provoked enough to unleash his wrath on a still hysterically laughing Isabela. However, he simply stiffened his posture and continued, not daring to look towards either woman as he worked.

"You know I was only kidding, Anders. The setup was just… so perfect. I couldn't resist," she said, though the effect of her pseudo-apology was severely dampened by the laughter she still struggled to contain. Anders' lip curled in dissatisfaction as he tugged roughly at Aya's remaining bandages, finally revealing her nearly healed torso.

"No. I don't know that," he said tersely. Isabela was about to reply, perhaps even apologize more earnestly, but Hawke cut her off. Odds were she would only enflame the healer's temper even more, and Aya, as tired as she was, did not have the patience to mediate an all-out argument between the two. Besides, she hated when they fought. It was so bitter having to choose sides between the woman she was in love with and the man who she was incapable of loving properly. She wished they could find a way to just… get along, for her, but never expected it to happen. Anders tried to mask his true feelings often, but he'd never been quite as inconspicuous as he thought he was.

"If you even think about fighting in front of me I will be forced to kick both of your asses," she sighed emphatically. "I may be on my feet but I still feel tired. So no bullshit, please?" Begrudgingly, Anders nodded, as did Isabela. He was always the bigger person when it came to his tiffs with her, yet somehow, it was she who the Champion so adored. He truly could not fathom it. Still, he would always concede to Hawke's wishes, in spite of himself. "Good. Let's move on. Anders! I hope you've gotten out of the clinic at some point today. It's so lovely outside."

"Well… no," he grumbled, applying a salve lightly to Aya's stomach before redressing the wound for the final time. Isabela remained quiet while standing close to Hawke's back, still playing with her hair. Anders tried not to look, but he couldn't ignore the subtle pangs of jealousy that hit him.

"You should get out. Go save some stray kittens," Hawke said with a smile, gently touching his arm. As jealous and hopeless and resentful as he often felt towards the apostate, it seemed he was also completely vulnerable to her kindness. He hungered for so much more than her delicate friendship, but whenever she did something as simple as touch his arm, or smile at him, or tell him to get out of his dank clinic more often, his eyes would light up. Isabela had noticed this long ago, and did not fail to notice it now. If she didn't know that Hawke had such a big, innocent heart, the pirate might even feel envious. As it were, she only felt a slight surge of pride knowing the mage had freely and fervently given that heart to her, for as long as she would have it.

"That… would be nice, Hawke," he commented somewhat nervously, wrapping the last of the bandages. "There you go… but, I don't know if I can. Not today, at least. Or the next few days. I have some work to do."

"What kind of work," she asked curiously, fixing her shirt. "It must be especially important if it outweighs all those poor, helpless Kirkwall kittens." He let out a stilted chuckle as his eyes darkened almost imperceptibly. Isabela groaned inwardly, expecting him to spew some righteous crap about the priorities of mages and the significance in the ideals of his damned manifesto. Surprisingly, she actually believed in a lot of what he had to say… most of the time. When it came to choosing between templars and mages, her choice was simple: both may be capable of violence, but only mages were subject to unjust persecution and imprisonment. Seeing as she hated oppression in any of its various facets, particularly those that involved magical lobotomies, she had to sympathize with their cause. Of course, falling in love with an apostate had also endowed her with a rather obvious bias that obliged her to their cause, but regardless, she found their plight relatable. _Anders_ made a point of all this, to which she could whole heartedly agree, though it was _Justice_ who put her off. For it was the increasingly prominent and disgruntled spirit who crammed his views down everyone's throats and convoluted Anders' cause.

"Well, perhaps I shouldn't say work," he replied, turning his back on Hawke as he began pacing the floor slightly. "It's more of… an experiment."

"Experiment?" Aya stood, inching closer to the healer. His sudden changes in mood – from cheery, to bashful, to aggravated, and then sharply to vaguely anxious – unnerved her. It seemed lately that his words and actions were becoming as erratic as his constantly swinging emotions, which would be worrisome enough without Justice in the equation.

"Yes, that sounds more appropriate. I've spent a great deal of the past month mulling over a kind of… revelation that I had, and researching a means of rectifying it." He turned suddenly to face both women, a remote flame bristling enigmatically in his eyes, laden with unchecked weariness. This inexorable blaze alone was enough to pique Isabela's curiosity thoroughly; however, she sensed the reservations Aya shouldered in this moment. The Champion was the only one who was capable of talking Anders down off whatever precarious perch he'd happened to thrust himself upon. His currently skewed zeal did not bode well for her wariness of him. "You see, we were both wrong, Hawke. You thought it selfless of me to offer my body to a friend. In some ways, it very well may have been. But there are times when I know that… that even Justice looks down upon the choice that I made. Not for his sake, but for mine, as a mage. And when I feel his shame and apprehension, I know that what I did was _unnatural._ It should never have happened."

"Unnatural," Hawke asked, confused and somewhat concerned. "Anders, this is… sudden. What provoked such strong feelings?"

"Vengeance," he spat, causing Aya's brow to knit together further. Isabela didn't harbor much of an opinion on the ethical standing of Anders' choices regarding Justice, though she did agree that his sudden and vehement opposition of them was a bit unusual. "Look, Hawke," he said, his voice softening again, "it doesn't matter. My mind is made up. Now, I'm going to be trying something – a solution, if you will. And I was thinking that perhaps you'd like to be a part of it. I could use your help."

"I…" Aya hesitated for a moment, glancing quickly at the pirate, who could only shrug. Quite frankly, this concession of Anders' was weirdly abrupt, though Isabela failed to see the drawback in it. Unless, of course, it involved him mangling himself or putting _her_ lover in harm's way. "I will help you, of course I will. But just what needs to be done?" Anders grinned widely, pleased to see Hawke was on his side. However, it seemed to Isabela that there was also something small but undeniably grim in the way he smiled at her, something she could not place. That left her feeling a bit unnerved, too.

"The Tevinter Magisters were the only mages who ever sought to reverse spirit possession. Did you know that?" Hawke shook her head hesitantly. "While studying their methods, I stumbled across the formula for a potion that I believe will effectively separate Justice from me. Without killing either of us," he quickly added, noticing the cautious look on Aya's face.

"Just because it won't kill you doesn't mean it's not dangerous." Anders' lip curled, just a fraction.

"There are always dangers with magic. But I believe this will be worth the cost." Isabela felt Hawke stiffen beside her, tacitly weighing the potential repercussions of the healer's actions. She was so steadfast in her support of her friends, though she would never be so foolish as to allow them to undergo a task that would harm them in more ways than it would help them. This had always been Hawke's constant dilemma with Merrill and the Eluvian. In the end, she had stood by the blood mage's side and had steered her in her eventual decision to destroy the blighted mirror. This support had not come without its grave costs, but when all was said and done, Merrill was safe, and that was all that mattered.

Finally, Hawke's shoulders loosened as she sighed and said, "If you truly believe so, then I'm sure you're right." Anders' eyes glistened with a twinge of sudden ardor that had nothing to do with his anticipation over the potion. Isabela unconsciously drifted closer to Aya, pointedly grazing flesh.

"I knew you'd stand behind me in this," he said, admiration plain in his soft voice before it suddenly dipped into a somewhat dismal undertone. "Even if…"

"What," Hawke asked, her voice sounding a bit pitchier than she had intended. He turned his gaze squarely upon her for a moment as his brow furrowed deeply. He eyed the apostate with unkempt solemnity, betraying any reassurance he might try and press upon her. For a moment, Isabela felt certain that Anders planned to endanger Hawke in some way, but quickly shook off the thought. He… loved her. It was useless and irksome in all ways, except that it made him attempt fiercely to protect her – that was rather beneficial. No good could come of his feelings otherwise.

The pirate dismissed her distrust when Anders merely shook his head and smiled. He was just fidgeting and thinking grim, she assumed, like he always seemed to as of late. Whatever he was going to try, it could only cause _him_ harm. _He's just worried he's going to incur the not-so-infamous wrath of Aya Hawke, _Isabela thought with a smirk, her nerves abated.

"Nothing," he assuaged, somewhat feebly in Hawke's opinion. "I just _really_ hope that this… plan of mine works. I haven't put much thought into what I'll do if it falls through." Aya smiled lightly. She was unnerved by Anders' oblique manner of speaking, but thought it best to support him, regardless.

"Then we'll make sure that you don't have to. So what is the plan, Anders?" The healer went on to explain which ingredients he needed to collect for the potion – _rocks and sewer minerals,_ the pirate griped silently. She didn't suppose either would be entirely difficult to procure, but in the event that they might come across dragonlings or some other trouble in their search, Isabela wasn't pleased that the healer felt so eager to include the still tender Hawke in his experiment. She was being overly cautious, she knew, but after nursing the mage back to health in the past week, she couldn't help it.

"And you're sure it's such a good idea for Hawke to be running all over creation to find these ingredients? I still think it's a bit soon." Aya rolled her eyes, but gave her lover's hand a squeeze, nonetheless.

"I have to start getting into trouble again at some point, Bela. Why not start now? In fact, let's go incite a riot in the bazaar or something – return my life to its naturally chaotic order already."

Anders tried not to stare at their interlaced fingers when he conceded, "Isabela _is _right, Hawke. I imagine you've only been up and walking around the city for a couple of hours and you're already looking like you could use a nap. Then again, you also make a good point. So, how about this: we'll give your stamina the rest of the weekend to recuperate, and then we'll gather bright and early Monday and go trudge through some piss and shit. Sound good?"

"Not at all. But we'll be there."

"Wonderful," Anders said before staring blankly at his boots in the small silence that followed. The quiet only seemed to exacerbate Aya's nagging suspicion further, causing her eyes to narrow. She tightened her grip on Isabela's hand abruptly, and the pirate turned to her with a questioning glance. However, she found that Hawke was not staring back at her, but at Anders.

"Do you want me to worry," she asked him suddenly. He met her gaze, trying to appear both amenable and confused, and not quite portraying either very believably.

"Excuse me?"

"I know you're moody," she shrugged. "And the revisions you've made to your manifesto recently have been pretty… fatalistic, which doesn't bode well for this sudden change of heart you're expressing. I might believe it a bit more if you weren't also so purposely vague."

"I'm not sure you-"

"I just want to know what you're not telling me Anders."

"Don't you think your distrust is a bit unwarranted? We _are_ friends." Aya wanted nothing of his inauspicious reply. To her, it sounded like evasion. She should have fought him for an actual answer, if only to ease her mind, but instead opted to appease Anders.

"Of course," she sighed.

"Then you need not worry so much." Hawke stared hard at the healer for a moment, debating internally whether or not she should push the matter. Eventually she decided to abandon her assertions in case they might cause an unwanted argument. She would collect the ingredients, then confront him if need be. Until then, she would drop it.

"I guess not. Thank you again for the checkup. We'll see you Monday morning."

"Thank _you_, Hawke." Anders grinned widely in her direction, but she felt no inclination to return the appreciation. Instead, she tugged at Isabela's hand and made her way quickly to the door. Though they didn't say a word, both women had to wonder if they'd gotten themselves into something they would regret.

* * *

Neither Isabela nor Hawke really had much of an idea what they were expecting from Anders' experiment – a lie perhaps. Though the Champion had left the Darktown clinic that previous Saturday in a calm and resolute contemplation, one which Isabela constantly attempted to break, she had been more vocal about her worries the night before they left for the small mission.

"I just don't know," she sighed, lying in the garden as her rogue lover sharpened her daggers by the light of a lantern. The weather had improved greatly in the past month, easing into the soothing warmth and rolling green renewal of spring. It was often hard to appreciate the calm, pastoral restoration of late April under the confines of a city as clustered and grey as Kirkwall, and so Isabela and Hawke had taken to retiring to her garden on most evenings. Merrill had kept the area lush and fragrant; however, she was not one to maintain it in a tidy and contained manner – not as Leandra had before her passing. The tiny elf believed in a more wild and free-roaming approach to botany, with vivid and lively plants coiling around the estate and backyard of their own accord. Some of the other nobles might consider this small paradise unkempt and overgrown, but as Merrill had suggested, it momentarily loosened Aya's bounds to the claustrophobic city and gave her a sense of freedom – something she felt less and less in the past six months. It became her respite on nights when she was home, without work or obligations.

The apostate ran her fingers through her hair, inhaling deeply of the soft grass and lilacs planted beside her. This was her favorite spot – between the lilac bushes and the ancient oak tree in the backyard – it smelled delightful, provided shade from the encroaching spring heat, and allowed her a bit of pleasant nostalgia. She imagined that as children her mother and uncle had played in this spot often. Gamlen would climb the tree and Leandra would sit beside the lilacs and read the books of poetry and fairytales that she had always favored. Or, at least, that is what Aya imagined. She wished she'd thought to inquire of such wistful visions when her mother was still with her. Or perhaps she simply wished her mother had not been taken. No matter, she pushed those thoughts away as Isabela smiled down at her kindly.

"Don't know what?"

"What to do with Anders. I'm afraid he's going to get himself into trouble. _A lot_ of trouble." She stared up at the stars, extending her hands towards the sky and spreading her fingers like a wandering child. From her perspective, it looked as though she could run her fingers through the vast blanket of purplish obsidian. When she was young, she had always imagined that, if she _could_ touch the night sky, it would feel like velvet. The sunshine and azure of the day would feel like cotton, but the night would feel like a fine, dark piece of Orlesian velvet, held delicately in her long appendages. The stars, on the other hand, were not for feeling. They were merely for watching, and for being watched. Or, at least, this is what she had thought since she was a little girl.

Hawke had first experienced death at the age of five. She'd lost her best friend – a boy from the village in which they lived – one summer's day as they were picking wild strawberries by the river. The boy, Julian, had bent over the riverbank to pluck a particularly succulent looking strawberry and fallen into the water. Neither could swim, and Aya knew that in the time it would take her to run back to the village and fetch their parents, Julian would be lost. So, instead, she was forced to watch frantically as her dearest friend drowned.

There was nothing she could've done, she knew, but she still feared that she would be blamed for Julian's death. The river had taken the drowning boy from her, so she couldn't even lead his parents to a body. In utter shock, she sat by the water for the remainder of the afternoon and the evening. She couldn't move or think. Eventually, after nightfall, her frightened father found her. She remembered him yelling at her, his face awash with worry and subsequent relief. He may have asked about Julian – she couldn't comprehend the words that fell from his mouth. Instead, she stared blankly at the stars as he scooped her into his arms and carried her home.

In the distance between the river and the village, she thought about where Julian had gone after he drowned. Not so much where the river had taken his body, but where the maker had taken his soul. However, as she gazed upon the stars, she realized he must be _up there_, beside the maker and Andraste and every single soul that had ever been taken from this life. She realized that those stars, burning fiercely in the sky like a million tiny explosions, were not stars at all. Rather they were more like eyes – the eyes of the dead – peeking down from eternity to watch over the ones that they loved. She picked out the biggest star in the sky, and knew it had to be Julian.

Lying in the garden, her head resting upon Isabela's thigh, she knew the three biggest, brightest stars in the sky were now her mother, father, and baby sister. That comforted her a bit as she mulled over the constant calamity that was her life.

"You don't think his experiment will work?" The pirate, finished with her daggers, placed them in the grass and leaned back on her elbows.

"It's not really the experiment I'm worried about. It's just… he's hiding _something_, you know? And I'm sure it can't be anything good. He was acting so damn twitchy and ominous."

"He always acts that way around you, sweet thing," Isabela laughed lightly. "You should try and be a little less irresistible sometimes." The mage rolled her eyes.

"You know this is different. He was acting like a guilty little boy. Except… with an obnoxious spirit stuck inside of him." Isabela was silent for a few moments, casting off her sarcasm to thoroughly consider what Hawke was saying. She knew just as well as Aya how foreboding Anders' nerves could be. She suspected he was up to no good – to what degree, she was unsure; however, his odd behavior did warrant an unusual amount of anxiety in her. Of course, she didn't want to tell Aya this. The apostate needed Isabela's aloof sense of humor to assuage the pesky negative thinking she was prone to. Her sarcasm may aggravate Hawke at times, but it was still healthier than reinforcing her worries outright.

"He's got plenty of reasons to be guilty. But you never know how much of that guilt comes from Justice. That damn spirit is so self-righteous he could make Andraste feel like a bloody whore." Finally, Isabela had gotten a laugh out of the other woman. She grinned, noting the way her heart seemed to beat faster when listening to the soft, dulcet tones of Hawke's laughter. There wasn't a great many things in the pirate's life that actually made her feel like a good person. But for some reason, when she made Aya laugh, particularly on a bad day, or a worrisome night such as this, she truly felt like she was doing something right. It felt nice.

Isabela dropped from her elbows to lie down on her back fully. She eased in to Aya as closely as possible, nestling their heads together so that their hair meshed in flowing rivulets. Hawke still stared intensely at the stars, though a contented smile now lay upon her lips. The pirate did the same, gazing into the dark expanse overhead in an attempt to see whatever it was that Hawke was seeing. To Isabela, they were just stars – beautiful, of course – but just stars, nonetheless. They always looked brightest to her over the sea. She wondered if, to Aya, they looked brightest over Ferelden.

Another minute of silence passed before the apostate remarked, "You know what I think really worries me about this situation?"

"Hmm?"

"Well, with Anders… he escaped from the circle seven times. I'm surprised the templars didn't just execute him. I mean, I always assumed that if a mage were that much trouble, they'd just kill them. Maybe not in Ferelden though – I don't know. I tried not to ask too many questions about the circle growing up, in case I ever ended up there." She shifted a bit, then continued on, her voice growing darker. "After the seventh time he was conscripted by the wardens, where he was granted a reprieve from the circle. And I guess being one of the Grey wasn't exactly a picnic, what with the taint and the Darkspawn slaying, but if it granted him an official pardon from the circle… he should've stayed. Instead he ran away from them and fled to Kirkwall, where he settled down in a secret clinic just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the damn gallows," she said mordantly.

"He's evaded capture for years, but he's getting careless. If something goes wrong with this experiment, or if… if he's planning something worse, they'll catch on. And this time, they won't take him to the circle. They won't even execute him – that's not the way of the templars in Kirkwall. They'll make him tranquil. That's a fate worse than death, Bela. And if the templars tried to subject one of my friends to that – Anders or Merrill – I would kill every last one of them." The pirate was surprised by this blunt, plaintive admission. Aya wasn't a killer, after all. When it came to defending herself and the ones she loved, or if just an innocent stranger in desperate need, she _would_ kill. Regardless, she was not a killer. But she talked about taking out the templars as if she were. Maybe she would be, if they pushed her and her principles towards a high enough precipice. Tranquility would be her breaking point. "I guess that's what worries me most." It worried Isabela, too. And though she didn't want to ask Aya what she would do if tranquility were thrust upon her, she felt she had to.

"What if it wasn't them," she inquired softly. "What if it was you?" Aya was quiet for several moments before she slipped her hand into Isabela's and squeezed tightly.

"A fate worse than death…" she repeated, quieter still. The pirate wanted to allay both their fears, but couldn't bring herself to. She could only hope that it wouldn't come to that.

* * *

The ingredients had been relatively easy to collect. When obtaining the sela petrae they had encountered some thugs and a remarkable amount of aesthetic unpleasantness. When searching for the drakestone, they found that the Bone Pit had once again been infested with dragons. However, all of these creatures and cretins had been rather easily dispatched. Aya was tired, and still wary of Anders' motivations, though she was put at ease by the positive turn of mood he achieved from acquiring both. He was all smiles on the return trip to his clinic, and Hawke and Isabela were silently happy that it seemed they could avoid a confrontation with the healer. Unfortunately, as the three companions, as well as Varric, arrived at the clinic, Anders' previously suspicious behavior reemerged.

As he left them in the front room of his clinic while he put away his new ingredients, Isabela turned to Hawke and quietly said, "I think you'll need to confront him. I would do it myself, but… well, I think we both know that would end in a complete brawl." The apostate sighed and nodded, a determined look taking place on her face as Anders reappeared.

"Aya," he strode towards them like a man possessed… figuratively, not literally. There was a sudden urgency to his voice that left his three companions slightly taken aback. His moods seemed to change with more rapidity each passing day. "Now that I have the necessary ingredients, there's one last thing I must ask of you. And I can't tell you why." Hawke's brow knitted in slight confusion at his abrupt, business-like manner. Just before they'd returned he'd been smiling and sarcastic – the old Anders. "I must get inside the chantry, without being seen." Aya's eyes widened briefly before narrowing – Anders wanting to sneak into the chantry was most decidedly _not_ a good thing.

"What?"

"Will you talk to the Grand Cleric for me? Distract her long enough for me to do what must be done?" Isabela and Varric glared at Anders, suspecting some sort of foul play, though the healer acknowledged only Hawke.

"What 'must be done'? Anders… what are you plotting?" He smiled slightly, concealing his motivations well. Aside from his obvious jitters and sudden urgency, it was almost impossible to tell what he was thinking.

"You would not thank me if I told you." His voice was abruptly affected with a sharp, slightly accusatory tone when he next spoke. "If you support freedom of mages, help me. That's all I can say." Aya was clearly wounded by this comment, and still rather perplexed. Isabela imagined dozens of possible scenarios – Anders' possible plots – moving a mile a minute within her quick mind.

"You want me to distract the Grand Cleric… and talk to her about what?"

"Food? The Weather," he replied sarcastically. "What does it matter?" Hawke snorted. "No… talk of mages. Give her one final chance to hear what we have suffered. To pick a side. I assume she'll be more inclined to listen to the Champion of Kirkwall."

There was a pause, then Aya went deadpan as she calmly asked, "What is it you don't want me to see?" Anders' face darkened and he was quick with a retort, once again trying to guilt Hawke as he had when persuading her to help him retrieve the ingredients for his potion. Isabela gritted her teeth as she held herself back from making a biting comment – she didn't want to instigate the situation in any way.

"Don't you believe in me, Hawke? Don't you believe that mages deserve to live free of the templars' grasp?"

"Of course I do," she yelled, anger suddenly evident. However, in typical Hawke fashion, she reigned it in just as soon as she'd let it spill forth. "I've lived in fear of them my whole life, Anders. You know that."

"Then trust me now." His face softened, and he reached out to place a hand on Aya's should. The contact seemed to make her uncomfortable and she shrugged out of it, much to the healer's dismay. "I am doing only what is necessary."

"I…" She struggled to find the appropriate response as her composure chipped away slowly. Perhaps only Isabela noticed this; in fact, it was likely. The change in the apostate's appearance was subtle as her jaw tightened, and her shoulders twitched, indecision and frustration evident. "I can't act blindly. Tell me your plan."

"I am taking a risk. I would not see you drawn into it." _Bull_, Isabela thought. The very thing he was asking was for Aya to involve herself in the situation, whatever that may be. "But," he quickly added, his voice sounding terribly snide as he remarked Hawke's growing hesitancy, "maybe your support of mages ends at talk. It's easy to support freedom if no one must die to achieve it."

"Are you kidding me," she snapped, coming within two inches of Anders' face. For someone who apparently had strong feeling for the Champion, he was becoming very good at driving her to dislike him. This satisfied Isabela, but also unnerved her. "You talk about freedom as if I've never fought for it! I fight for it, _every_ day. And not just for myself, but for family and friends and even strangers, for Maker's sake! So do not speak to me with your latent accusations that I am somehow apathetic to the cause of mages. You're so taken with your personal vision of justice that you… you seem disenchanted with what freedom _truly_ means to us." He was silent for a moment, contemplating her words with obvious spite. Isabela knew that had to sting, for both of them.

"I'm sorry if you disagree with my passion, Hawke. I don't believe you are apathetic towards our cause. I'm just not so sure that our cause is the same."

"_I_ _know_ what to fight for, Anders. I'm not so sure that you do." Cold fury bubbled within him, and Hawke took a step back.

"_I am the cause of mages._ There is nothing else inside of me! You… you, on the other hand," he spat, "are the revered Champion of Kirkwall. An apostate, but a hero, nonetheless. The templars of this city would have the heads of a dozen _lowly_ mages before they would have yours!" As his final words echoed throughout the clinic in burgeoning silence, Varric and Isabela standing back with shock at his implications, the pirate expected Aya to explode. However, Hawke's shoulders merely slumped, and as Isabela tried to get a good look at her face, it seemed she was masking herself from her companions. _Is she… guilty? _"So, will you aid me now? Or does your support stop at the chantry door?" Hawke was silent for many seconds before she replied, her entire demeanor seeming to have shrunk. Now Isabela was sure she was guilty.

"Why don't _you_ talk to the Grand Cleric? You could at least try to find a peaceful solution of some sort-" Anders laughed sardonically, cutting Aya off.

"That's far too idealistic to ever happen. They're all the same, you know. The Grand Cleric, the templars, Meredith. Elthina may be a bit kinder, but when all is said and done, she sees us just as they do: monsters. And believe me when I say they _can't_ imagine a world with room for all of us. Who knows though… maybe they're right."

"No. That's not true, Anders. You _can _talk to her. Show her that you – that mages – are just as reasonable and peaceful as they are." The two apostates were quiet, peering at each other as though searching for something – some sort of answer perhaps. Finally, Hawke said, "I don't know what you're planning. But you don't _have_ to do it. You can find a better way – the best way. There's still time." Anders turned away slightly, leering into the fire at the far end of the room with his shoulders suddenly trembling. Hawke remained steady, feeling as though she had perhaps dissuaded him from whatever horrible thing he'd had in mind.

"Yes, time. Maybe there's still… time," he whispered. In an instant, the trembling in his shoulders grew into sudden, violent tremors as he rounded on Hawke, his eyes glowing blue with indignant rage. Just like that, she had incurred Justice's temper.

"Leave! This does not concern you," the booming, disjointed voice commanded. Instead of stepping back, Aya lunged forward once again, just inches from the possessed man, and challenged his wrath. Startled, Isabela's hands tensed, at the ready to reach for her daggers and gut Anders if he even attempted to lay a hand on the Champion. Beside her, Varric seemed just as ready and alert.

"This is _Anders'_ decision, not yours!"

"I am Anders," Justice persisted, though he did not seem as though he was ready to attack Hawke yet. "You have given into sloth! You would stand by while mages are abducted and tortured. Go! Anders has no need of you." Aya's fists clenched, as she was about to retort when Justice's blue glow suddenly faded from the healer's features and was replaced with utter confusion. The Champion, however, remained tensed. "What was I saying?" That was most certainly Anders, and Anders alone.

"You… don't know what just happened," Hawke asked, her voice still tinged with anger and stress. Anders shook his head, his mouth slightly agape as his eyes clouded with solemnity. Aya unclenched her fists and took a step back, closer to Isabela and Varric.

"No, I… was it him?" He seemed fearful that Justice had overtaken him so swiftly, and without his knowledge. However, the pirate suspected he was also afraid of what he'd said to his friend. It hadn't been the worst thing he could've thrown at her, but it had certainly hit a nerve, which is what now warranted her caution and subtle retreat.

"Yeah," Hawke nodded. He closed his eyes for a moment and gulped, a mixture of sadness and anxiety glazing over his soft eyes. Aya winced, but did not dare move closer to him. He was no longer the friend he had once been, and that was stringently apparent to her.

"Forget what I have asked of you today, Hawke. If you can," he responded, his voice just barely above a whisper. Normally, the kind-hearted apostate would have fought these words in an attempt to protect Anders, to console him and assuage the constant worry that he was nothing more than… well, a monster. But after the accusations he had hit her with, she could only give him a slow nod before turning towards the door, motioning Isabela and Varric to follow with a murmur and pursed lips.

The pirate obliged and remained silent. Unlike Hawke, however, she actually did look back as they left, and what she saw filled her with complete anger. For instead of seeing a man broken and aggrieved, she saw a man stirred with determination and the thinly veiled knowledge that he was, somehow, right in his convictions.

Though she did not have the heart to say it to Aya just then, she knew that whatever the healer was planning, he fully intended on going through with it. Apparently, the consequences didn't matter.

* * *

**Once again I want to thank all the people who have continued to read and review consistently (and those that have done so less than consistently, as well). You're all wonderful, and I love your reviews. Please, keep them coming : )**


	8. Chapter 8

**So, this chapter was not one I'd ever planned on writing. But it popped into my head a few days ago and I just had to write it... before things start getting a bit heavier. This one actually got away from me, too. So the part I had planned on writing for the end will stand alone as a shorter chapter 9. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Worry had never been an emotion that Isabela was apt to dwell upon. She'd subjected herself to enough nerve-wracking and unruly situations over the years that she was no stranger to the feeling, in short doses, of course. However, it seemed her perpetually cool and unfettered disposition, much like that of someone in the throes of celebratory drunkenness or marvelous sex, would not allow her fretting to exceed a few sharp, culminating pangs. Anything less she could easily shrug off with a shot of whiskey and a cocky smile. Anything more she could easily introduce to her blades. Worry wasn't a complicated emotion, in her oh-so-humble opinion.

On the opposing side of the spectrum, however, love was a _very_ complicated emotion. And even though it had proven to be the most freeing, stunningly poignant thing she had ever had the good grace of knowing, it was somehow also the most nerve-wracking thing she had ever endured. And Andraste, the adept rogue had endured the deaths of loved ones, a miserable, loveless marriage, shipwrecks, and an endless stream of degradation from those who thought her beneath their snobbish standards. A pirate's life, with all its rewards – booze, gold, glory, and seafaring liberty – also had a number of drawbacks, all of which she had managed with undeniable charm and impish poise. But, much to her surprise, and the surprise of all who knew her, it was finally the life of a lover which had left her both vulnerable and speechless. And now, full of worry.

It had always been the dynamic of their unusual yet electrifying relationship that Aya was the one to worry. Her abundant virtues – the selflessness, the perseverance, and the unflappable compassion – were admirable, yes, but left her open to a great deal of weakness. For only someone who could care so much and so unconditionally for another human being was capable of such needless worry. And everyone knew that Aya's paradox, the facet that was both her greatest strength and greatest weakness, was the fact that she simply _cared_ so damn much. She cared for paupers and peasants; for nobles and authoritarians; for whores and thieves alike. In truth, it didn't really matter who or what you were: if Hawke perceived but a shred of damnable goodness in you, then you were worth caring about. You were worth saving.

The Champion would care, and she would consequently worry. And then Isabela would crack a joke, make an inappropriate gesture, or simply grant her mage a fiery smirk in a stressful moment, and the tension would be alleviated. The pirate knew it was her duty to Aya to be frivolous and silly when the mood needed lightening. After all, people like Aya were only so caring so that people like Isabela could be so careless. She knew this well.

But things had been changing drastically as of late. The weeks were passing at an otherworldly speed; wearisome, mind-numbing days bleeding into one as Kirkwall's Champion and her companions lost themselves in a blur of life-saving and moral rightness. With Meredith and Orsino constantly at each other's throats, seeming only to agree on one thing – that Aya Hawke could and _would_ solve all their problems, differing as they may – the poor apostate began to feel as though she was living in the eye of a most frazzling hurricane, constantly on the brink of some catastrophe or other. All the while, there seemed to be an eerie, proverbial death-clock hanging over the city, counting down the seconds until the magical rift would split irrevocably, and the templars and mages would shower the people with blood. It was all very dark and foreboding, to say the least, and constant darkness happens to be terribly exhausting.

Isabela attempted to shoulder part of Hawke's burden whenever she could, in particular by worrying when Aya simply did not have the time or energy to. Someone _had_ to worry, after all, or no one would ever have the concern or incentive to make a difference. And while the Rivaini pirate wasn't exactly known for making a difference, or even being all that concerned with much of anything, she had become known for caring quite ardently for her blonde-haired apostate. So, even if she wasn't a worrier, even if it wasn't quite her thing, she would not complain if for the good of the one she had come to love so very much.

Sometimes she would see the templars prowling the streets of Kirkwall in hordes, or even, Maker forbid, a mage being publicly apprehended, and she would worry. Sometimes she would see Meredith's tranquil cronies out running mundane errands for the knight-commander, and she would worry. Sometimes she would notice how sketchy and withdrawn Anders had become in the past weeks, and she would worry. And sometimes – the worst of times – she would catch Aya's exquisite emerald eyes staring off into the horizon vacantly, her arms coiled rigidly at her sides and her fingers buzzing with tightly bound magic, and she would worry.

Because, in the simplest of terms, the terms that the pirate understood best: someday, the whole shit-house was going to go up in flames. And when it did, no one knew what in the Void was going to happen. Especially not Aya, and she was the one that, for some reason the mage struggled to understand, everyone was depending on, whether she wanted to be or not. And in spite of herself, in spite of how much she cared and how much she sympathized, Hawke wanted to be the hero less and less every day.

That was why, with a complete disregard to the whole bloody city of Kirkwall, Isabela was still just… trying to lighten the mood, whenever she saw the opportunity arise. And once again, in her still-humbler opinion, Isabela asserted that the absolute, most perfect opportunity for a lightened mood would be Aya's upcoming 28th birthday. Hawke would disagree of course, on one hand because she so adamantly believed there were more pertinent issues to attend to than her own sanity, and on the other hand because she was just a bit too modest. But the rogue didn't really care – whether the Champion knew it or not (and she didn't), she needed one day of complete merriment and flippancy, and damnit, Isabela would give it to her. At least then, when this whole situation exploded, Aya could have one good day to cling to, to brighten her mood, and one pirate queen to adore in her darkest hour.

Try as she might though, Isabela couldn't think of anything superior enough to suffice for Hawke. It wasn't that the apostate would have _any_ expectations, and her general standards were not quite so extravagant and demanding. On the contrary actually, Aya probably wasn't expecting anything, aside from sex, which Isabela knew was a given. But, for the first time in her life, sex just didn't seem good enough. She wanted Hawke's birthday to be special – a day she wouldn't soon forget, if ever.

Eventually, Isabela conceded that the best way to give Aya the day that she wanted would be to simply ask her. Then she may not have the element of surprise, but she could at least be certain she was doing something right. The pair was sharing drinks in the Hanged Man a few days prior to the event when the pirate asked, "So, what do you want to do Wednesday?"

"I don't know," Aya shrugged nonchalantly, after taking a long pull from her ale. "Why? Were we supposed to do something Wednesday?" Isabela wondered if she was being sarcastic, or merely playing coy. Either way, she seemed rather preoccupied. _Which is exactly why she needs this._ The pirate leaned slightly over the tabletop, crossing her arms and accentuating her bosom.

"Hawke, you _do_ realize what Wednesday is, don't you."

"But of course," she said, straight-faced and wry. Her sarcasm tended to lean more towards the dry and scathing brand when she was utterly exhausted, as she was now. "Wednesday is the day after Tuesday." Isabela stared blankly at the apostate for a long moment before her deadpan expression gave way to an amused smirk.

"That's right, dear. How astute of you – you know the days of the week."

"Sure do. I'm real smart in that way." The mage's eyes rounded and flickered in that insufferably callow way they did when Aya was trying to play innocent. Isabela didn't like to admit it, but the particular combination of those softly unadulterated emeralds and childish, dimple-wrought smile always made her feel just a little bit weak in the knees. If not for her current objective, she would've made it a point to drag Hawke up into her room for the next several hours and ravish her until they both succumbed to slumber. But, no. She had a birthday to plan.

"I didn't mean the day though. I meant the date." Aya puzzled over her now empty mug for a moment before shaking her head nonchalantly.

"You know that, unfortunately, I find it quite difficult to keep track of things as trivial as what day it is, or how long it's been since I've slept, or even who's life I'm saving," she remarked caustically, her voice tinged with hints of resentment. "In the past weeks, _at least._" Isabela unconsciously traced patterns along Hawke's hand, sitting idly on the table as she stared distractedly at the wall.

"Unfortunately… I'll just tell you then: Wednesday is the 18th." Aya turned and stared at her questioningly for a few seconds before the pirate let out an exasperated sigh. "The 18th of _May_, Aya. Remember?" Hawke nodded slowly, still processing the significance of the date before her eyes briefly lit up with some long-lost childhood excitement. This sudden illumination was dashed within the moment, perhaps as the reality of a Champion's life set in.

"Right! My birthday… yeah, it _would_ be nice to actually… enjoy myself. Relax, or something…" Isabela immediately sensed the disappointment in the end of this statement, and felt frustration quickly flare within her. Not so much towards Hawke, but towards every person in the city who viewed her as a means to their own end.

"But?" Hawke shrugged, her brow furrowing momentarily as she bit her bottom lip.

"I don't know what you had in mind, Bela. I would love just to spend the day with you, really. To push every else's troubles aside for one day and have some fun." She turned towards her pirate with an apologetic smile and grabbed hold of her hand. "And by all means, if you can somehow convince Meredith, Orsino, our dear friend the Guard Captain, _as well as_ every other poor sod in Kirkwall with a damn problem that the day of my birth warrants me some uninterrupted free-time, then please, whisk me away! Otherwise, we'll both just have to settle for some amazing sex. Which, in my opinion, isn't really settling…" Noticing Isabela's pout, Aya squeezed her hand and smiled sadly. "I'm sorry, Bela. That is has to be this way."

"I know," the pirate said, turning away. "It's so aggravating though. Your birthday should be special." The Champion grinned curiously.

"Why?" Isabela scoffed.

"What do you mean 'why'?"

"I've already had twenty seven in my life. By now the magic and excitement have kind of… tapered out. Especially since my family is gone." Her jaw tightened for a few seconds before she turned away and mumbled, "Well, except for Carver. But I'm not expecting much acknowledgement from him." The pirate couldn't ignore the dull sorrow in Hawke's voice, and wished for nothing more than to quell it. A bit of good humor _should_ do the trick. She really did have a knack for making her Champion smile, after all.

"Well, now I definitely have to do _something._ It's almost as if you're challenging me." Aya chuckled lightly, eliciting an earnest grin from Isabela. Turning back to the other woman, her face ethereally framed in the dim firelight, aglow with far away sadness and much closer adoration, Hawke smiled.

"I have no idea where you've gotten it in your head that you have to throw me some spectacular birthday extravaganza. It honestly is the thought that counts, and I very much appreciate how badly you _want_ to make my day special. But I can't foresee any of Kirkwall's powers-that-be conceding to our wishes. In fact, at this point, I doubt that anything short of my own death or kidnapping would grant me a day off." Hawke waved off her own joke, flagging down the barmaid for a refill on both their drinks. Isabela hid her sudden contemplation well, but unbeknownst to the apostate, she had given her a rather grand and unforgettable idea.

The gears began turning rapidly in her head as she considered her outlandish options. Death was quite obviously out of the question in _any_ situation – specifically, it would be a colossal birthday-ruiner for both of them. _However_ (and what a 'however' it was), kidnapping was absolutely plausible. The pirate had organized a few in her life – not of the negative but of the dangerously sexy variety. It had been awhile since she'd orchestrated a stunt quite so deliciously scandalous, but she figured that she could manage, even if the kidnappee _did_ happen to be the renowned Champion of Kirkwall. In fact, this rather large detail would only make the act all the more satisfying.

Aya turned back around, full mug in hand, to catch Isabela smiling wickedly. She groaned quietly and happily, never quite sure what she should expect from her pirate. "Thinking obscenely exciting birthday thoughts, are we?"

"Mmhmm," Isabela purred, leaning forward to kiss her lover on the lips with teasing sensuality.

Yes, it was most undoubtedly going to be the best kidnapping _ever._

* * *

Hawke woke slowly that morning – groggily, but not at all painfully. In fact, her body felt quite relaxed, more so than it had in a long while, save for a few precious and entrancingly intimate moments she was able to share with Isabela whenever they could find the time. Her muscles contracted calmly in the act of waking, almost without sensation. She was numb perhaps, though lacking the concern and remote ache that accompanied such a troublesome feeling. Rather, she felt… peaceful.

She refused to open her eyes at first, and in fact, found that she wasn't quite able to. Her eyelids felt so tremendously heavy and cumbersome, the very prospect of lifting them made her want to cede to the continuing pangs of slumber. Instead, she simply lay there… in her bed? In Bela's bed, maybe. Or perhaps even in a ditch somewhere, depending on the events of the night prior. Of course, when she delved into her memory, the trail of vague occurrences that preceded this unusual morning eluded her. Last she remembered, she had returned home to the estate after a particularly tiresome day of patrols for the city guard. She and Isabela had been sitting in the kitchen, chatting over the tea the pirate had prepared. Then there were brief flashes – a smile, a laugh, a soft kiss – and finally, nothing. Nothing at all.

She tried to ponder the implications of this apparent blackout, but found she was incapable of that, as well. Pondering felt like too much of a grave and weighty task. Instead, she tried to process the sense of her surroundings, best as she could without opening her leaden eyes.

All sounds were muffled – a dampened crash in the distance, the ruffling of a wind that seemed miles away, and the occasional… squawking, of a bird, most likely. So, she _was_ in a ditch. Or so it would seem. However, that suddenly seemed improbably as she registered the scents around her. There was no stale, vomit or piss-ridden flavor in the air – quite the opposite, what she drew into her lungs tasted fresh and mildly corrosive. Like salt.

Suddenly understanding she had _no_ idea where she was, or why, or when, Aya tore open her lethargic eyes. Her vision was an absolute blur, but it seemed that it was rapidly improving. She tried to sit up, but her limbs were clumsy, feeling gelatinous and obtuse. And her voice… she tried to speak, to gasp out a demanding inquiry or even just vocalize her abrupt and very real panic, but her throat felt like it was made of cotton. Things were clicking now, her awareness becoming greater with each passing moment. It wasn't until she realized her hands and feet were _bound_ that she was able to choke out her anxiety.

"W-what's g-going on," she croaked, her voice hoarse and dumb. The fear was coursing through her properly now as she underwent a rapid personal assessment. Bound, vision blurred, body half-numb. She didn't know where she was and couldn't remember what day of the week it was supposed to be. Her chest heaved when the pieces started to fall into place.

"Aya?" Then, clear as day, that fine, roguish voice called out to her, filled with light concern and even greater joy and excitement. That really had her confused.

"B-Bela?" She couldn't see much beyond a few hazy shapes, one of which drew near her, growing larger with each apparent step. Before she knew it, the pirate leaned forward, cupping her face with her bronzed hands and planting an intensely loving kiss upon her lips. She was excited, but why?

"Can you see okay yet?" Hawke shook her head, unable to speak as she was so thoroughly confused, her mind a muddled mess. "Don't worry, your vision will return in full within the next five or ten minutes."

"Well… why _can't_ I see in the first place?" Isabela took the mage's shaky hands in her own and ordered her to remain momentarily still. Aya complied and her lover cut her bonds. Wringing her wrists, she asked, with a greater hint of suspicion. "And why was I tied up? Did…" She was almost afraid to ask the question, but had to, nonetheless. "Did you do this?"

"Of course. I had to! For full effect, you know?" It was almost uncanny how she could hear Isabela's mannerisms in her tone of voice. She couldn't see correctly, but she was sure, from the impish, mock innocent words and slight chuckle she contained, that the pirate was winking at her.

"Full effect of what," she asked hesitantly.

"You haven't figured it out yet?" Aya answered with irritated silence, eliciting a rather patient sigh from her lover. "Obviously not. Well then, let me ask you this: are you aware of what day it is?" Hawke pondered this question for a moment, digging into the depths of her foggy mind where she knew the answer must lie. The last night she remembered… it was Monday. Or… no, that wasn't correct. Monday she'd spent almost the entire night and morning in Darktown, attempting to locate and apprehend a rogue sect of blood mages Orsino had warned her of. She hadn't made it home Monday night. Tuesday, on the other hand, had been a late night, but ended in her own bed, at least. Well, just short of it, actually.

So last night was Tuesday. Today must be Wednesday. And Wednesday was… "My birthday," she groaned quietly. Her own, fuzzy words taunted her from the corner of her mind – a joke she'd made in the Hanged Man pertaining to death and/or kidnapping. _Of course_ Isabela had taken her seriously.

"Happy birthday," Isabela said tenderly, pulling the apostate to her feet and wrapping her arms around her waist.

"It's my birthday. And you kidnapped me because-"

"Because I had no other choice," the pirate interjected swiftly, pulling Hawke closer to her. "You recall what you said to me, don't you? The only way you'd get a day off is if you were dead or kidnapped. And the former was most certainly out of the question. The latter, on the other hand, I was and am quite capable of." Aya could clearly discern the happy smirk on her pirate's face as her vision started to sharpen. There was a lot going through her head at the moment, and that damn lovely smile wasn't making her ungainly thinking any more lucid. She knew the consequences of this stunt could be rather severe, though her fumbling train of thought was yet to arrive at them. She could only shake her head.

"Maker, so this is _my_ fault?" Aveline would flay her before Meredith was ever given the chance to. She could already hear the lecture she was sure to receive from the red-headed guard captain: _"Are you stupid, Hawke? How could you encourage such absurd thoughts in that pirate whore's head?" _She gritted her teeth and Isabela pointed a stern finger in her face.

"No. There's no fault to be found here, Hawke. _Trust me._" Aya wanted to protest, but found herself completely tongue-tied. She was aggravated and worried, of course, quite terribly. What a foolish thing for Isabela to do – kidnapping the bloody _Champion_ of Kirkwall – the one person everyone depended on daily to do their dirty work. She didn't want to seem conceited, and she most certainly wasn't, but Aya actually feared the city might fall apart in a day of her absence. Kirkwall had become a powder keg lately, thrust upon an immense precipice and always on the verge of exploding or otherwise tipping over the edge. She had come to play a great hand in keeping balance among civilians and politicians alike, and wondered how they would react to her apparent kidnapping.

"Look, let me explain. I'm sure your brain is still pretty fuzzy from the drugs-"

"Yeah, what the Hell, Bela," Hawke suddenly snapped. Feeling her anxiety and annoyance bubbling within. "Was drugging and tying me up really necessary? I mean, c'mon!" Isabela sighed and stood back from the blonde woman, hands on her hips. Aya had a right to her annoyance, after all, and the pirate would be patient with her.

"Again, just let me explain, okay?" Hawke crossed her arms tightly over her chest, but conceded, nonetheless. "I drugged you with a very natural, very safe herb used often by the Dalish. Merrill procured it for me. And yes, Hawke. She knows. As does Varric. He penned the kidnapper's note. It was quite a little masterpiece, I must say."

"You even left a note," Hawke asked incredulously.

"Yes, silly." Isabela spoke as if this situation were as commonplace and carefree as a game of Wicked Grace. Aya was slightly confounded. "You've been taken hostage by a group of seedy, down-on-their-luck slavers, who view Kirkwall's Champion as their ticket to fortune. They plan on using both your magic and notoriety as tool for pillaging and plundering. As of now, they are holding you in an undisclosed and heavily guarded location – that's here, on the Wounded Coast," she whispered as an obviously dramatic aside. "You will remain in said location until the arrival of their transport, at which time you will be dragged off to the Anderfels… or, somewhere. I can't really remember. Varric thought up the whole thing. Anyhow, these depraved slavers will be on the lookout for city guardsmen and templars alike. But," her eyes suddenly shimmered with mischief, and Aya was struck with the desire to simultaneously throttle and kiss the pirate senseless, "what they're _not_ expecting is your beautiful, Rivaini lover to tail them all the way to the coast and break into their camp, where I of course wreak havoc and save your luscious ass." Though she shouldn't be, the mage was actually rather stunned by the ingenuity of this ridiculous plan.

"So… let me get this straight: you drugged me, tied me up, _somehow_ managed to get me all the way out to the coast-"

"Where I've already set up a rather cozy and romantic camp, mind you."

"Yeah, right," Aya said, continuing on. "Yet you will return tomorrow with me at your side and give yourself full credit for my 'rescue'?" Isabela scratched at her head, pondering this statement and the negative connotations Hawke had applied to it. Her actions may not be morally pure, but her intentions were. She only wanted to give Aya a nice, peaceful birthday. Why was she still so upset?

"I can give you some credit, too, if you want. We'll tell everyone that I freed you and you proceeded to kill half of your captors with a single fiery explosion. That way your reputation won't be tarnished." The apostate stared blankly at Isabela before erupting with the rare, fretful neuroticism she saved for… well, occasions such as this. The pirate sighed again, this time louder, patience thinning. She'd explained herself. That _should've_ been enough, or so she thought.

"Oh, gee, thanks!" _Andraste's ass, she can be _obnoxiously _sarcastic when she wants to be,_ Isabela thought to herself. "Isabela, I really don't think you understand the implications of what you've done. Do you understand how much trouble you'd be in if you were caught? For one thing, Aveline would be livid. Even if she believes our story, she'll probably still suspect enough to muster a pretty aggravating lecture. And you're _already _on thin ice with her. But… but what if one of the other guards caught you first? What about one of the templars? I mean… Carver! Have you considered Carver? He's not _such_ an idiot, you know…" _Oh, nope. I didn't really consider Carver. Who ever does? I'm sure that won't make a difference though… will it? Damnit…_ Hawke's good sense was causing her confidence to falter, and she needed it. Because if she couldn't be confident in this situation, then Aya most certainly couldn't be. And if Aya wasn't confident, then she'd be nervous, and _that_ would ruin everything.

_Stop over-thinking it, Isabela. Your plan will work. You'll be fine. Hawke will be fine. Everything will be _fine._ So cut it out and do what you do best: shut her up and make her forget. _Following this line of thought, the pirate shrugged lightly to herself and began to untie her corset in a very deliberate and ostentatious manner. Hawke watched, confusion edging its way into her aggravation as she continued to rant and rave, her resolve cracking just slightly, as Isabela knew it would. The apostate was going on and on about irresponsibility, deceit, carelessness – the whole bit – as she swiftly unbuckled her boots and kicked them off into the sand. Now the mage was stammering. _Wonderful. _Hawke finally broke as Isabela set her daggers upon the ground and sensuously removed her top.

"… What are you doing," she asked in utter exasperation. She was _trying_ to be angry, and the pirate could tell. But the way she chewed at her bottom lip, hunger restrained but still clear in her eyes, completely betrayed her righteous stance. She was pissed, sure, but her frustrations, born out of anger, were about to give way to a far more desirous variety.

Stopping, she replied leisurely, "We're going to go for a swim. In the ocean."

"We are?"

"Yes." The mage paused for a moment, and Isabela noted the shift that occurred in her. The overtly ethical, raving Champion of Kirkwall bowed to defeat as Aya Hawke, the mere woman – eager and full of anticipation in her brief reprieve – reared her head.

"Naked?"

"Yes," Isabela purred, her lips curling into a very wicked grin. For a moment they stood staring – Isabela in her smallclothes and Hawke shamelessly ogling.

Finally, the apostate's lush lips rounded and she simply said, "Oh. That sounds like fun."

"It will be, sweet thing." Isabela reached behind her back to unclasp her bra. She normally would not have chosen to wear one on an occasion such as this, but she was in the mood to tease. Hands behind her back, she held the fabric in place and said, "But if you'd rather stand here and fume instead of enjoying the day, be my guest. I assure you though, your pessimism is pointless. No one is going to find us. You're stuck with me for the day. All alone, out on the beach, with no one around for miles…" Finally, she allowed the garment to fall to the ground, her sultry voice and amber eyes oozing seduction. _"No interruptions."_

Hawke's mouth hung agape for a long moment, blinking several times and fighting against all frustrations she felt dying within, until finally she fell onto her ass and began fervently removing her boots. Isabela chuckled huskily as the blonde woman pawed at her trousers and tunic clumsily, like an over-excited child. Then, wearing nothing but her smallclothes, she sauntered over to the pirate, undoubtedly trying to seem cool and collected, but failing quite awfully. She proceeded to try her hand at seduction, but failed in that, as well. Normally, she could be quite the temptress when she wanted to be, but the subtle quiver in her voice now detracted from the effect.

"You know, Bela, I'm still a little woozy from those herbs. So, uh, I'm gonna need you to keep extra close to me in the water."

"How close," the pirate whispered into Hawke's ear, pressing her body flush against the other's as they ignited with the heat that cascaded between them. She felt Hawke drawing in a short, ragged breath as her nimble hands caressed the woman's pale back, stopping at the clasp of her bra.

"Like, uh," she gulped just a tiny bit, and it was at once so adorable and innocently sexy that Isabela thought she might melt. "Extra _extra_ close." Another garment fell to the ground and the rogue nibbled upon Aya's ear, reveling in her heady, heated moans with utter delight. Unable to contain herself much longer, perhaps, Hawke stripped away the remainder of the thin fabrics that separated them. The moment her smallclothes fell from her body, Isabela's warm hand slipped between Hawke's thighs, and the woman gasped, shivering.

"Isabela… wait… I need to tell you something." Aya allowed her head to drop into the crook of the other woman's neck, her chest suddenly heaving with her heavy breathing.

"What?" The pirate didn't stop her sudden ministrations, but did give Hawke the courtesy of a reply, weak as it was and saturated with unbridled passion.

"I don't… don't think I'll be able to… make it to the water." Isabela stilled briefly, simply savoring the lithe, soft feel of Aya's body pressed tightly against her own. She let out an adoring laugh, knowing that she'd won, but also that, in some brilliantly unprecedented way, she'd been defeated, as well. She couldn't resist Hawke either.

She buried her laughter in Hawke's silky tresses, nuzzling her face against those shiny, blonde locks. "Don't worry, love. Neither will I."

* * *

The day had been a success. Of course, Isabela _knew_ that it would be. They'd made love in the sands near their camp, eventually in the water, and on the shore at sunset. They'd eaten freshly-picked berries and turkey for dinner (some of the food Isabela had swiped from the market the night before). For dessert, they feasted upon each other, and came down from their euphoric high with a bottle of sweet Orlesian wine. Finally, with an infinite amount of brightly burning stars piercing the clear sky overhead, they lay entwined before the fire, bathed in the subtle orange glow of flames, and the milky white illumination of the moon. Isabela wasn't much a fan of the word, but to her, it truly did feel as close to _perfect_ as she'd ever come.

She knew Aya was nodding off beside her, but wasn't quite ready for sleep. She pressed her lips softly to the mage's bare shoulder and uttered her name.

"Are you falling asleep?"

"Uh-uh," she replied, her voice muffled in a pillow. Isabela traced a finger lightly down her spine and the apostate shivered. Slowly, she rolled over and lay flat on her back, smiling contentedly up at her lover. The pirate smirked and placed an immensely affectionate kiss upon her lips.

How unusual it was – love was a feeling she'd spent so many years running from – she'd hardly known how to express it before Aya came along. But now that they were together, now that there was no going back, she found she quite easily embraced the foreign emotion, as well. It wasn't so hard to express, honestly, if you managed to grab hold of the right person. When with Hawke, perhaps lying tangled nakedly in the moonlight as they were now, it was so very uncomplicated and effortless to express everything she so intensely felt. Even in an act as simple and caring as a kiss. The gesture was silent, and though it spoke nothing, it seemed to have said more than Isabela could ever have mustered. She still didn't quite understand this fact, but accepted it, nonetheless.

"Good. Because I _must_ know how you enjoyed your birthday." Isabela grinned impishly, already aware of the answer. Still, she just wanted to hear Hawke say it.

"It isn't obvious?" She propped herself up on her elbows to get a better view of the pirate and chuckled. "Oh, it _is_ obvious. You just want me to say it out loud I suppose?" Isabela nodded and she cleared her throat. "Ahem… Isabela, I had a _wonderful_ birthday. _Truly._"

"Knew it," the Rivaini breathed warmly into Aya's hair, now tousled with sand and sleepiness. She could _feel_ the apostate's soft, infectious smile, curled lazily upon her lips. It was a lovely feeling.

"However, I must say, I'm a bit disappointed in myself."

"Why," Isabela asked curiously, drawing back from Hawke and peering at her in the firelight.

"I always allow myself to be seduced by you, even when I know I shouldn't. Like this morning. I wanted to be pissed, honestly; I wanted to protest. _But then_, you started taking off your clothes. And do you know what I thought?" They were both smirking now as Isabela shook her head, hanging onto the answer with self-satisfaction. "_'Fuck it.'_" The pirate grasped the back of the other woman's neck gently, pressing her laughing lips against her forehead. "I hardly ever tell myself to just _'fuck it'_. In fact, it almost sounds weird coming out of my mouth, doesn't it? But that's exactly what I did. For a few different reasons."

"Oh, do tell."

"Well, first of all, I think you may be something of an evil genius." Isabela laughed before the mage corrected herself. "A sexy evil genius. Which I suppose I shouldn't be so keen on, considering I'm supposed to be Kirkwall's moral paragon or some bullshit like that. But I actually love it… bringing me to my second point. You'd think the ethical dishonesty of this whole faux kidnapping would absolutely appall me. I think it should. But that, mixed with the fact that a group of guardsmen could burst into our camp at any moment and reprehend us makes the whole thing… kind of a turn on." Without missing a beat, Isabela chuckled throatily and forced Aya on her back, straddling her hips. As she leaned down to bury her face in the hollow of the mage's throat, Hawke threw up her hands and laughed.

"Wait! I'm not finished… Bela, this last one is the most important."

"Is it," the woman asked without yielding, running her tongue lightly over Aya's neck.

"Mmm… yes. Yes it is. So just… look at me for a moment." Isabela knew that inquiring tone of voice. It was delicately demanding – wanting the pirate to continue, but having the good sense to know some things needed to be said. Pulling away teasingly from her lover's flesh, she obliged, staring down at Hawke. Her light hair had taken on the color of the blaze beside them, and her face was aglow with a sensuous flame. However, her green eyes were infinitely tender and admiring.

"Alright… you have my undivided attention. For a few moments, at least."

"Thank you. The reason I absolutely could not stay mad at you was and is because _this," _she motioned around the entirety of their camp, "this whole thing was so incredibly thoughtful. Never has someone done something so outlandish for me, all for the simple intention of making me feel happy and relaxed. I mean, you could have just gotten me a cake and some liquor and ravished me all over the estate. But _no._ That wasn't good enough for you. Because you knew I could be happier than that. So you went through all this trouble, risking your own ass, and inevitably taking a blow to your remarkably good standing with the Guard Captain, just for me. For my birthday. Aside from you, I have only ever known three people in my entire life who would've gone out of their way for me like this. Unfortunately, they're all dead. And though every day of my life I spend at least a few seconds wishing that weren't true, it doesn't hurt so much anymore. Because I know now I have _you._ To love me and make me laugh and pull some ridiculously sweet stunt on my birthday." Isabela's heart beat wildly out of her chest, causing every muscle to simultaneously feel as though it were numb and completely on fire. Aya was gazing upon her still, the fierce blush suddenly painting her cheeks obvious, even in the dim light.

"And I know something as sappy as this will make you feel totally awkward, so I'll keep the conclusion relatively short: what you give to me is definitely not the same thing as the care and guidance my parents gave to me, or the deep bond that my sister and I shared. But regardless of the differences, you've still managed to fill up all those tiny holes their deaths poked into my heart without much more than a kiss or one of your glowing smiles, and by the Maker, I'm so, so grateful for it."

Isabela was absolutely speechless as she stared down at Aya, both their bodies seeming to tremble slightly at Hawke's deeply sincere admission. Normally, the apostate would try to avoid such amorous and poetic proclamations of her love, fearing the pirate might deem them to be too "cliché" or "contrived". It was particularly hard for her, seeing as she'd grown up reading books riddled with poignantly epic romances and earth-shattering declarations of passion, but she managed to steer clear of such uncomfortably melodramatic speeches, for Isabela's benefit. However, as she lay upon the beach, exhausted and thoroughly content in her love's embrace, she reasoned that her birthday must allow her some vague pass on her overt romanticism. But in the silence that passed between them, Aya had to worry that perhaps… she'd overdone it a bit.

"Was that too much? Sickly romantic, perhaps?" Isabela merely blinked a few times. "It was, wasn't it? Sorry-" The pirate shut her up with a kiss so ferociously adoring that Hawke was sure her lips would bruise. For several long moments they devoured each other passionately, tongue and teeth caressing and clashing as the breath died in their lungs. Eventually they separated, the body's instinctual need for oxygen being the only thing that could pull them apart.

Panting heavily, Isabela framed Aya's face in her warm hands and said, "You are a romantic _fool,_ you know that?"

"You're insulting me," Hawke teased, her voice still quivering as she swallowed several short, deep breaths.

"But I'm telling you now, if you _ever_ change that silly, _beautiful_ heart of yours, I will have to beat you." Instead of replying with yet another playfully sarcastic remark, Hawke shook her head vigorously, that loving smile never leaving her lips.

"I won't, Bela. I promise. And you have to promise that you won't either." Their gaze connected and the rogue could feel her body buzzing – utterly aching – with the heat that exploded through her chest and coursed through her veins. If it wasn't love, it may have been torture.

"I won't, unless you make me._ But I know you never will."_ It was the absolute truth, and nothing could've seemed more _perfect._ Not to Isabela and Aya, at least.

* * *

**And thus I descend into a fluff induced sugar-coma.**

**But consider this extra sweet chapter a little gift to those of you who have continued to read from the beginning. You're the best. (Please though, prepare for coming angst...)**

**Also, please keep on reviewing! Your words, kind or otherwise, fuel me...**


	9. Chapter 9

**Okay, okay... I think I have a problem. Because this was supposed to be a short chapter (I even said that at the end of the last chapter, right?) - you know, just one scene. And it pretty much is. But somehow managed to be the longest chapter yet.**

**... For this reason I am admittedly quite annoyed with chapter 9. However, I hope you like it anyway! **

**Also, I've been very busy and sleepy lately, and thus haven't gotten around to replying to reviews. I received some very nice ones for chapter 8 and they all made me smile... so thank you very much : )**

* * *

Isabela awoke with a start from her deep, dreamless sleep. Her amber eyes, heavily lidded with lethargy, shot open, dilating in the darkness. Her breathing remained even as she exhaled through her slightly gaping mouth, lips chapped and dry. She attempted to move her limbs, to stretch a few of the kinks out of her toned muscles, but found herself feeling terribly clumsy – a clear sign of her weariness. Her body's sluggish responses suggested that she had been immersed in a dead slumber. So why the abrupt awakening?

The pirate blinked into the darkness a few times, her eyes adjusting as she yawned emphatically and rolled onto her side. With a subtle and unconscious smile fluttering upon her lips, she reached out to the sweet, supple form whose bed she had habitually laid in for the past several months, and sighed. Her long, tan fingers flexed, seeking to tangle themselvesin locks of silky, blonde hair. But instead, her palm groped a wrinkled, vacant stretch of sheets.

At this, Isabela's more conscious senses kicked in, and she realized that, aside from her own breathing, the room was entirely silent. Hawke was nowhere to be found. She frowned for a moment, suddenly craving the warmth and softness that should have been sleeping soundly beside her. Nonetheless, she lay on her back once again, resting her hands behind her head, and waited. Hawke had most likely gotten up to go to the bathroom or grab something from the kitchen. In fact, the shift in the bed's weight at her departure was probably what had caused the pirate to wake in the first place. Aya would be back momentarily.

As she waited, she closed her eyes lightly and engaged in some sleepy contemplation. It was funny how only a few months ago, when she and Aya had made the shift from friends with incredible benefits (and immense feelings that both were too fearful to even speak aloud) to a real, established couple, Isabela had felt so awkward waking in the apostate's bed. This was entirely influenced by her "love 'em and leave 'em" mentality, which demanded her disappearance from any lover's bed only minutes after the conclusion of their tryst. With Hawke, she knew things had to be different though – they could make no progress in their relationship if she continued to practice this old habit.

The first few times, she'd actually had to force herself to stay. It wasn't as if she didn't want to – there had always been a part of her that longed to appreciate the mage's subtle, unguarded beauty as she slept and wake beside her in the morning – but the desire for such things scared her. It was so much easier to walk away with her physical appetite sated, effectively shirking off any and all attachments. But with Hawke, she stepped into these attachments willingly, allowing herself to fall in over her head and become irrevocably ensnared. It was a necessary trap, and though it had initially plagued her with anxiety, it eventually became a comfort. Even though she technically had not moved in with Hawke (this was only a formality), they fell asleep together every night, and woke beside each other every morning, no matter whose bed they had passed out in.

Now, ironically, she felt an anxiety similar to that she'd felt the first few times she'd woken in Hawke's bed. Only this anxiety was caused by the apostate's absence. Minutes had passed, and though Isabela was not particularly concerned, the partial emptiness of the bed made her feel restless. _Sometimes_, she actually found she couldn't sleep without Aya curled up beside her – wasn't that something? Just another of love's idiosyncrasies which she would never even attempt to understand, she supposed.

After another five minutes of impatient waiting, it occurred to Isabela that perhaps Aya had fallen ill. She hadn't mentioned feeling unwell earlier, but it was possible that their greasy, "gourmet" Hanged Man meal had disagreed with the woman, and nausea had hit her abruptly. Now just a tad concerned, she rose from the bed and grabbed one of Hawke's fine robes from her armoire, stubbing her toe in the process. Cursing under her breath, she exited the room, and padded quietly into the adjoining bathroom. However, when she entered, she found the room to be dark and empty. _Maybe she went down to the kitchen for a drink?_

She strode quietly from the bathroom and out into the hall where she planned to descend the staircase. However, after a few short steps she halted. Something seemed different, all of a sudden, perhaps out of place. Her mind still foggy from a rather prominent weariness, she attempted to identify what struck her as out of the ordinary. Scanning the balcony that overlooked the estate's foyer, she hadn't noticed anything totally unusual. The house was quiet and still, save for Bodahn's muffled snoring echoing from the first floor, as well as the wind rattling the mansion's many windows. Shadows crawled listlessly over the pale marble floors, shifting as the vestiges from which they were cast rocked in the wind. A subtle, vapid chill seemed to drift through the old house, but on a blustery night such as this, it felt natural. In all, she found nothing off kilter.

Then, she heard a soft sound – a rustling, of papers perhaps – and her eyes immediately darted in the direction from which it had been projected. The sound had come from Leandra's old room – she knew for certain because the door was ajar. This was indeed unusual, for as far as Isabela knew, that door had been locked since the first week following the woman's death. She hadn't been there when Hawke had last gone rifling through the room in her grief, but she had heard of the incident later that same night when the apostate had sought Isabela at the Hanged Man craving liquor and physical comfort. That night Aya had explained that she had blindly entered the room and stood amongst her mother's idle possessions for over an hour, not sure if she should pack them away, preserve them as they were, or get rid of them completely. She had been so confused at that time, and the pirate, though rather unsure of the proper course of action, suggested she leave Leandra's things as they were, until a time arose that they must be removed. Hawke somberly agreed, but conceded that the room must be locked, and she herself would not enter again until the day came when she absolutely needed to.

With Hawke's words resonating clearly in her mind, she stepped lightly towards Leandra's room. When she reached the open door, she hesitated slightly and called her lover's name.

"Aya?" She stepped just inside the doorframe, glancing briefly around the room. If she didn't know any better, she would have guessed the room was still inhabited by the living. All the furniture was in place, as was the assortment of personal items placed carefully around the room. Everything was organized, appearing clean but not too clean – there were just enough items askew or out of place for her to believe they were still used on a daily basis. On the dresser, beneath a large vanity mirror, a number of perfumes and other beauty items were neatly lined, with one tiny bottle – perhaps Leandra's favorite fragrance – and hair brush separated crookedly from the others. Next to the wardrobe hung a dress and sitting below it, an elegant pair of shoes – both of which Isabela recalled the elder Hawke having worn and looking quite beautiful in on a few occasions. Had this been the last outfit she had planned before her death? No one would ever know, she supposed.

Then, on the bedside table, she noticed something that made her wince: an ornate crystal vase that contained a bouquet of white lilies. The flowers had long since wilted and the water evaporated, yet there they remained. Why Hawke hadn't disposed of them all those years ago, she could not fathom. All they would serve as was a vicious reminder of how and why her mother had been murdered. However, it seemed possible to Isabela that in the guilt Aya felt following the tragedy – and it had been abundant – she had actually wanted that reminder. The pirate could only shake this sullen thought from her mind, as her eyes finally settled on the woman she had been searching for.

At the sound of her own name and the light shuffling of feet behind her, Aya turned to face Isabela. She instantly knew who the presence belonged to, but could not force her tense posture to relax. When their gazes briefly met, the rogue found her features to be almost completely unreadable. As wisps of milky, lucid moonlight curved around the mage's face though, capturing her supple cheeks and full lips in a near spectral sheath of radiance, Isabela found nagging hints of anxiety upon the fringes of her demeanor. Her usually bright eyes glinted darkly in the embrace of a passing shadow before she turned back to focus upon whatever was sitting in her lap.

"Hi," she replied quietly, foregoing any needless inquiries as to what had woken the pirate or what she was doing in Leandra's room. Both were fairly obvious to Hawke, but the latter was still an absolute mystery to Isabela. She reserved her immediate questions, however, and took a seat next to Aya on the edge of the bed. With each passing minute that she remained in this room, she could further sense its disuse – the stale must of the air, the thin veneer of dust that touched everything, glowing like a veil in the dim light. It was refreshing to be next to Hawke, to smell her soft fragrance like faint lilac and soap, and to feel the constant warmth she radiated from her body.

Next, Isabela caught sight of the tiny black book and thin stack of worn, discolored parchments that she clutched in her hands. Her curiosity was piqued as she noted the tentative way Aya thumbed the pages of the book, running her finger gingerly under each line of sharp, cursive scrawl as she read, calculating every word. For a few minutes Isabela simply sat there watching the mage read, her long eyelashes falling over her narrowed emeralds while she scrutinized a few pages. Finally, she closed the book with a rigid hand, frustrations apparent when she sighed and shook her head. She lifted her chin and stared at the wall for another minute before the pirate spoke.

"What book is that?"

"Not a book," Hawke answered, shaking her head again before dropping her gaze upon its cracked cover. "Not really. It's a journal. My father's." Isabela nodded, pointing to the papers the mage also held in her grasp.

"And those parchments?"

"Letters that he wrote to my mother. He was never away from her," she said, turning to face Isabela, her expression still laced with indistinguishable emotion. "But he would write her letters all the time, regardless. He'd leave them under her pillow or in the pocket of her jacket. He could be very romantic that way." Finally, her lips cracked into a fond small.

"A romantic Hawke? Sounds familiar."

"Yes, I know. They both were, actually. Mother once confessed it was impossible not to be when they were together. They were very much in love, from the day they met, to the day my father died and beyond that."

"It's a shame I was never able to meet him," Isabela said sincerely. "I'm glad I was able to know Leandra though. She was a strong woman. A little shocked by my antics at times, I think, but she was always so nice to me." Hawke's smile grew wider, the pirate's favorite dimple carving itself into her cheek.

"She wasn't used to your personality. Our family was so mild-mannered, especially the women. She was a proper Amell noble, you know. Bethany was as naïve and sweet as a Chantry sister, sometimes more so. And I… well, I was usually pretty innocent, but also _really _good at hiding when I wasn't. I think she viewed you more as a strong-willed, independent tornado than a woman." They both chuckled before Aya lightly added, "She really did like you though."

"What about your father? Would he have liked me?"

"Yes. He would've seen the way you care for me and he would've _loved_ you for it." Hawke reached for Isabela's hand, intertwining their fingers as she continued to smile at the pirate.

"What did he look like?" Isabela had never asked many questions about Malcolm Hawke before. She knew the basic facts about him – he was an apostate and shared a very close relationship with his first-born. The pirate was sure Aya would have no qualms with speaking of him, but did not wish to make her do so. She herself hated having to speak of her own deceased father, the reminiscences always dredging up years-old pangs of grief and the absence of a male presence she'd tried more than half her life to recapture. She was truly curious, however, as to what the man had been like.

"Me. Or, rather, I looked like him. Carver and Bethany inherited all of mother's looks, but I was my father to a tee." Her green eyes clouded as she stared at the far wall, a ghost of a smile playing upon her lips as she recalled her father's image. "His hair was just a shade lighter than mine, though. And he always kept it so long. Mother used to complain about it all the time, begging him to cut it; but I suspect this was only because she didn't want him to draw any more attention to himself than need be. She used to run her hands through his hair all the time, as a sort of unconscious action. It was sweet."

"You had his eyes then?" They had to have been, as Leandra and the twins had all shared the same deep, honey-colored irises – lovely in their own right – but nothing compared to Aya's enchanting, empathetic greens.

"Definitely," she nodded with far-away vigor. "Same color, shape… though his were bigger. He had such large, expressive eyes, and long eyelashes. I inherited those, as well, but they looked so much different on _him._ I think… I remember him saying once he didn't actually like his eyes, because they made him look perpetually boyish. He said they fit me so much better. He also said that about his big ears though, and I know _that_ wasn't true." Isabela chuckled, tucking an errant strand of hair behind one of the mage's "big" ears. True, they _were_ above average size, but they certainly weren't huge, and Isabela found them rather adorable. She would tease them endlessly with her mouth whenever she wanted to arouse Aya.

"I like your ears," she purred.

"Well, I don't," Aya mumbled, brushing the hair back over her ear as she blushed. "What made you ask about my father?"

"Just wondering," Isabela shrugged. "You don't talk about him."

"I still miss him." The pirate scooted closer to Hawke and began playing with the silky fabric of her nightshirt. She could now hear the rain pelting lightly against the window in a steady, soporific rhythm, starting to sap her of her energy.

"I always just assumed you must have looked like him. You really don't look like Leandra did. However, there are certain expressions you make… like when you laugh really hard at something, or smile big, your eyes kind of squint and crinkle at the corners. It makes you look just like your mother, for a few seconds."

"I'm glad," Hawke said quietly, eyes still fixed upon the wall, though her body leaned into Isabela. "She was so beautiful. Bethany, too."

"Are you somehow suggesting that you're not?" Aya shrugged nonchalantly.

"Not like they were." Shaking her head, Isabela sighed.

"You really are a fool sometimes, you know that?"

With a wry smile the apostate said, "I do know. You tell me _all_ the time. In fact, I think it may be borderline abusive." Isabela nudged Hawke's shoulder playfully, rolling her eyes. Then, after a moment, she grabbed the woman's right hand and raised it to her lips. Her skin was so smooth and creamy, like that of a child's. And her hands were most definitely not the hands of a warrior or a rogue – there was no calluses, no scars – yet to the pirate, they seemed to thrive with more power than that of any she had ever held before. There was always a certain vibrancy teeming within the pads of her fingertips, buzzing with inexorable magic.

"Your mother was quite beautiful, as I'm sure Bethany was, too. But you are _gorgeous_. Inside and out." Aya smiled, pressing a soft kiss to Isabela's cheek, before resting her head on the pirate's shoulder. She _seemed_ okay, and Isabela would have assumed that she was, had it not been for the fact that her eyes remained fixed upon the wall and her hands continued to grasp her father's writings stiffly. She began weaving her fingers through the woman's blonde locks and gently asked, "Why are you in here, Aya? Hasn't this door been locked for years?"

"It has." Uncharacteristically, Hawke did not offer more of an explanation than this. She merely remained staring at the wall, her breathing evenly paced and body still as she rested against Isabela's shoulder. The pirate could not let an action as unusual as this go without an explanation, however.

"I remember the last night you were in here. You came to me afterwards, feeling upset, and said you wouldn't come in here again unless absolutely necessary." Isabela allowed a few seconds of silence, waiting to see if Aya would comment before continuing. She didn't. "What did you need in here? Your father's journal?" Another moment of silence passed before Hawke sat up, now clutching the journal closer to her stomach as she stared straight ahead.

"What I was looking for isn't in this journal. Or these letters." Finally she sighed, hanging her head as if she were just a bit ashamed. This confused Isabela.

"What were you looking for?" Another moment of silence passed, burgeoning between them swiftly and obtrusively. Hawke's shoulders slumped forward as she searched herself for the proper words. Isabela was anxious by this sudden shift in behavior, though she had sensed the somber nature of her mood from the moment she'd walked into the room – it merely grew more prominent in the growing quiet.

"I…" With an abruptly fervent grief set within her eyes, Aya lifted her gaze to meet the pirate's. Her jaw was rigid and taut beneath her skin, though her lips were subtly parted, burning with unspoken words. "I need to tell you a secret, Isabela. But you _can't_ judge me." The strain in her voice was evident, and the rogue nodded.

"I won't."

"I know, but I just need you to promise me. Please?"

"I promise," Isabela replied nervously, taking the apostate's hands in her own. "Tell me what's upsetting you." Hawke flinched anxiously, dropping her head and kneading her fist into her forehead. When she spoke, she spoke into her lap, preserving her secrets as best as she could while simultaneously sharing them with her love.

"I'm really afraid." The admission was so simple, yet so plainly and indignantly spoken that it managed to deeply unnerve Isabela, nonetheless. "Not just worried. I worry about a lot of things, all the time. But this is different. I'm _so_ scared. Sometimes, when I'm alone, it makes me sick. When I'm with you, or our friends, it's not so bad. I can distract myself, or hide it. But with everything going on between the mages and the templars lately, I just… I can't. It's getting to be too much."

The pirate was surprised – not necessarily because Aya was afraid (who wouldn't be in her position?) – but because she had _admitted_ it. Hawke was a sensitive woman; however, she had almost no propensity for forthright displays of intense emotion. Lest that intense emotion be love and the person on the receiving end be Isabela, it was entirely uncommon for the Champion to make a show of her emotions. Regardless, she was too compassionate and sympathetic not to feel every little pang of happiness, anger, or sadness that stirred within her. She just wasn't apt to show it.

Even when Leandra had been killed, and Hawke had been wracked with grief, guilt, and abject fury for Quentin's actions, she'd hardly spoken of it. When her mother had first died within her arms, Aya had shed silent tears, but she had not necessarily wept – not outright. When Isabela had visited her that same night, Hawke had bitten back her tears and wallowed tacitly in her numbing pain, her features contorted in solemnity that could not be contained. She was always a near perfect portrait of composure, as she was expected to be – she was the Champion, after all, and even after she'd lost her mother, she'd only had a few weeks to grieve before Kirkwall called upon her to halt the Qunari invasion.

Aya's problem was, however, that even when she contained her emotions, she could not stop them from showing themselves in her features. Her eyes were too full of ardent emotion, her lips powerless against the will of a bright smile or a melancholic frown. Her physical being was almost like a marionette doll, hung up on her heart strings and directed by her mood. When she was upset, or even happy, her body expressed many subtle yet telling nuances which entirely betrayed her so-called composure. On anyone else – anyone Isabela knew not to be a hero, or "Champion" – this trait would have been viewed as a weakness. But the pirate found Hawke to be stronger and kinder for it.

The apostate tried so hard to hide her fear, and she'd done a wonderful job of it, but Isabela had seen the signs all along: constant weariness, steep shifts in emotion, bold proclamations of disdain and dispassion against the templars. Sometimes she wasn't even herself, but rather, a thinly drawn caricature of who she felt she needed to be, for everyone else's sake. It was a tiresome façade to maintain, and by the end of most days, Aya was forcing herself to appear underwhelmed while the truth lie on the contrary.

Now, her body shook as she clenched her muscles tightly, trying to appear still and collected. However, when Isabela slipped her arm around the mage's waist, she could feel her start to break.

"But it's not supposed to feel that way. I'm Kirkwall's Champion. They tell stories of me in taverns; little kids play mages vs. templars in the street, and they all want to be Hawke. Because I'm the _hero_," her voice was harsh and bitter as she spoke, and Isabela could actually feel her attempting to pull away from her grasp. By now, it was almost reflexive that she react by tightening her hold upon the woman's waist. She didn't resist, which appeased the pirate slightly. "And you know, if I could really be the hero in Varric's stories, or the hero those children see – endlessly courageous, strong, _invincible_ – I wouldn't be scared. But it's just… that's not real. That _version_ of me is not a true hero. A _true_ hero is like… the hero of Ferelden, someone who sacrificed everything she had for the good of the people. But me…" her voice cracked and she buried her face in her hands, so that Isabela could hardly hear what she had to say next. _"I don't want to be a hero. I don't want to die." _

"Then don't be a hero." Isabela's answer came hastily, selfishly. She wished there were a kinder, more righteous solution to give, but if there were, she could not think of it. To her, it seemed the only simple, safe thing to do would be for Aya to leave Kirkwall completely – for the two of them to sail away from the Free Marches and not look back – but Hawke's morality would forbid her from doing so. In which case she would be doomed to whatever fate the City of Chains would cast upon her. _No, you're not supposed to think like that, Isabela. Not for her sake, at least._

"I have to be. There's no way out for me." Her reply came quiet and remote, and when Isabela turned to catch her face, there were slow tears streaming down her cheeks. Illuminated by the ghoulish haze of the moon, the haphazard liquid rivulets seemed to paint her skin with glass. Unsure of what to do, the pirate cupped Aya's damp face in her hands and gently began to trail kisses along the path of each tear.

In between each affectionate gesture she muttered, "No… you don't… not if you don't want to be." However, her words only seemed to make the apostate tremble more as she shook her head, like a fearful child.

"I c-can only escape it if I fight. And I chose my side long ago," she was gulping down ragged breaths, her tears now flowing in hot torrents as she suppressed full on sobs. She didn't _have_ to be strong for Isabela. True, even after all the forthright displays of affection, worry, and on a few occasions, possessiveness (the aspect of love she found least becoming) in the past few months, she still wasn't entirely comfortable with candid emotions. To see her Champion wracked with sobs would cause her a great deal of discomfort, but not all of it awkward. Most uncomfortable would be the sight of the incomparable Aya Hawke overwhelmed by her fear and grief – a sharp defeat that the pirate could feel aching within her.

As this thought dawned on her, she was once again astounded by the complex emotion that was love. Somehow, this strange emotion had surpassed the planes of sensory perception, digging into her mind, her mentality, and even her physical being. Of course, in a bodily sense, love was to be felt in sensuous waves of pleasure and fleshy ecstasy. Making love was an act that had become more addicting to Isabela than mere _sex_. It entwined their two beings – metaphysically, philosophically, what have you – to the blunt rogue, both ideologies seemed particularly foolish. But she could understand them, regardless, through her bond with Aya. They'd truly forged a physical link between them, like a thick cord of rope with each end tied to their respective hearts. The pain Hawke felt now was a pain the pirate shared, and Maker, how awful it was.

She conceded that she did not want the mage to be strong – not now, at least, not when she didn't need to be. Hawke spent so much of her time protecting others, maintaining her cool, unflinching veneer, exuding strength to placate the masses. It was exhausting, to say the least, evidenced by the apostate's nightly vulnerability and lassitude. She had no reason to put up a front for Isabela in this moment – not to ensure her comfort – the pirate did not want it if it came at the cost of her love's sanity.

"Why did I choose the losing side? So s-stupid," Aya muttered furiously, clenching her fists stringently upon her thighs. She was shaking so terribly now Isabela feared she may become physically ill. How she could be so strong in this moment, despite her persistent tears… it truly baffled the Rivaini.

"It's who you are, Aya. Look at me," she commanded, her words firm yet gentle. She cupped one of Hawke's cheeks in her hands, urging the woman to face her, only to meet unexpected resistance. Aya shook her head shamefully, her mouth pursed. Instead of fighting it, Isabela shifted her position, sliding off the bed to kneel on the floor before Hawke's shaking knees. Her pale, bare legs knocked against each other in the moonlight, muscles writhing slightly in the immense tension. Was she punishing herself?

She grabbed hold of Hawke's wrists, pulling them towards herself and drawing her closer. Isabela looked up into the mage's face, unnerved by the petulant, guilty way in which she clinched her eyes shut. Again, her breath quickening at the rapid pulse she could feel exploding within Aya's wrists – blood, heat, and heartbeat pounding in her tightly compressed fists – Isabela said, _"Look at me."_

Painfully slow, the apostate complied, tearing open her lids to reveal glassy, bloodshot eyes. Instantly, as she connected with the tender concern and pain in her pirate's amber eyes, her brow crumpled and her lips parted, a sob escaping ruefully. Before she would allow herself to fall apart, however, she flinched back roughly, rejecting her own weakness.

"No," she said hastily. "This is _pathetic._ I can't… Bela, _please…_" Her plaintive cry rattled Isabela. Admittedly, she wasn't quite sure what Aya was pleading for, but she would blindly give, nonetheless – anything. Not certain how to react, she grabbed the mage's face between her hands, and pulled her closer until their foreheads were touching.

Upon their touch, she replied, in a breathless whisper, "_I'm_ asking _you_: don't be strong tonight. You don't need to be."

"I don't _want_ to be." Her voice cracked, and finally, the full extent of her sob was realized against the rogue's forehead. Isabela could feel Aya buckle against her as her muscles were released from the incredible distress they'd been coiled under. Her entire body seemed to spasm lightly as she wept, held firmly in place by Isabela, who did her best to soothe her with a burning trail of kisses along her face, neck, and balled fists.

She didn't allow herself to think as Hawke cried, merely tried to feel along with her – riding the wave of grief for several pained minutes until it reached its crescendo with one last choking sob, and ebbed away with longing whimpers. Her fear and sorrow died away rapidly, abruptly, and though neither felt it pertinent to speak, Isabela continued to punctuate the silence with her many kisses and caresses. Her lips traced the contours of Aya's soft cheeks, her damp fluttering eyes, and soft lips, now bloody in spots where she'd bitten down harshly without care in an attempt to steel her tears.

Eventually, Hawke began to reciprocate the gesture, languidly at first, but then fortifying her bloody, bruised lips with the affection she felt overtaking her. She removed one of her hands from Isabela's grasp, no longer trembling or tensed, but feeling jittery and spent from clenching so tightly. Shakily, she raised her hand to weave through the pirate's silky, dark hair, and quietly rasped, "I want to tell you what I was looking for, in my father's journal."

"Okay," Isabela nodded, her voice still barely pushing a whisper. She leaned back a few inches, interlacing the fingers of her left hand with Hawke's right, and using the other to wipe the remaining tears from the woman's cheeks.

"My whole life, my family have told me how alike my father I am. It was something I was always proud of. He was the strongest person I knew… an incredibly talented mage, adoring father and husband. He'd gone to almost any lengths to protect his family, particularly Bethany and I, yet managed to evade capture by the circle. He was… well, he was what _I_ always imagined a hero to be. He was mine." She paused wistfully, leaning over to pick up the journal she'd allowed to fall to the floor in her previous struggle. She once again stroked the dark, weathered cover, sighing grievously with a furrowed brow.

"He always appeared so strong, Bela. I saw him the exact way the city of Kirkwall sees me – courageous, persistent, selfless. But I know that on my part, these qualities are only partially genuine, and partially forced. Deep down… I feel such tremendous _shame_ for this façade," she spoke the word with an obvious measure of pain, though allowed herself to meet the pirate's gaze. Isabela tried to infuse her expression with as much understanding and warmth as she felt, in an attempt to console the apostate's rather obvious disgrace. "I'd feel less ashamed if I knew that… maybe he wasn't always as strong as he appeared. Maybe there was a time in his life when he was just as scared as I am now." Though the tears had passed, Aya still seemed to shiver at the mention of her own fear.

"Did you find anything," Isabela asked gently, once again tucking a pale, loose lock of hair behind Hawke's ear. This time the mage left the errant strand tucked in place, acknowledging the affection in the pirate's gesture with a tiny, flushed smile.

"There was one instance many years ago. He explained it as being the scariest thing he'd ever experienced. But… it wasn't the same." Isabela took note of the nostalgia in the apostate's eyes, as well as the subtle crimson blush that painted her alabaster cheeks.

"Well, what was it?" Hawke shifted in her seat, sliding off the bed so that she could sit beside the other woman, drawing comfort from the shortened distance. She placed her hand in Isabela's, lacing their fingers together. She gazed upon their interlocked hands as she next spoke, a dull, remote pain in her green eyes.

"I ran away from home once, when I was twelve. It was shortly before we moved to Lothering, actually. We'd only been living in our current village for about six months or so. I'd just started making friends _again_, formed my first big crush. And the village was so nice, seemed so safe and stable – I'd somehow convinced myself that we'd stay there for good. I would've liked that." Her eyes darkened as she continued. "But there was an incident. The boy I'd had such a terrible crush on, Gavin, was also a mage, and had been caught using his magic. It was such a scene: word got around the village within a few hours, and that night, before his family had even had a chance to run, the templars came to take him to the circle. I was so furious about his being taken that when my parents told me _we_ were leaving, I downright refused. I freaked out completely." She seemed to squeeze Isabela's hand just a bit tighter.

"I was still young – I thought my world was ending, and I blamed magic for it. Magic had taken Gavin, was forcing us to flee, had _always_ forced us to flee. I even blamed father… for giving me his magic. The whole thing was immature, senseless, but I was so distraught I couldn't see reason. So, when my parents ordered me to pack my things I just… I made a break for it. I ran from them." Aya laughed lightly, though the sound rang hollow with Isabela. There was still sadness in her voice as she reminisced. "I was actually gone for over a day. I recall it being the angriest I'd ever been – probably the reason why I was so incredibly stupid about the whole thing. I only came home because I missed my sister. My mother and father, too, but I wouldn't admit it at the time." She paused for a moment. "When I _did_ come home, the family wasn't there. At first I was afraid, thinking they'd left the village without me, but then I noticed our things were still there and figured they were probably out looking for me. So I went to bed and slept. I woke up some hours later to the sound of my father screaming and my mother crying. I remember my heart jumping into my throat, thinking something was wrong – perhaps templars had come, or one of the twins had been hurt. Then I realized all the fuss was over me. Mother was crying because she was relieved, and father was crying because he'd been terrified for over a day.

"More terrified than he'd ever been before, he wrote. Any number of things could've happened to me while I was gone. It was rather probable that the templars would've caught me. They were already on alert because of the situation with Gavin. But everything had been fine. I tried explaining that to father, but he wouldn't listen. He just screamed about my carelessness. Then, for the first and only time in my life, he beat me. Well and good, too. We were all absolutely stunned by his reaction, especially me. I tried to run into my mother's arms for protection while I wept, but he wouldn't allow it. He grabbed me by the shoulders and told me something I'll never forget:

"He said,_'Aya, you're just a girl. A sweet, innocent girl. But you're also a mage, whether you like it or not. And when _they_ see you'_ – they being the templars – _'they see a monster. To them, you're not worth your own freedom. You cry about how unfair it is – and you're not wrong – but you're whining is pointless. You will always be hunted – nothing is ever going to change that. And you can either rebel against this fact, putting your life and the lives of the ones you love in danger, or you can accept it and help to protect us.'_

"That's what I remember. I'm not sure if it's word for word, but that was the gist of what he was saying. I vividly remember the 'monster' part though – there's no mistaking that." Isabela reached over and began to stroke Aya's interlaced fingers. It must've been a difficult way to grow up, knowing you could never be your true self because, whether it was true or not (and in this case it most certainly wasn't), _others_ would view your true self as monstrous and wicked being. The pirate had been called her fair share of names in her life, persecuted for any number of petty crimes, and heavily chastised for her carefree lifestyle. But not as a child. Childhood had been a time of constant praise and support from her parents, at least up until her father's death. She'd been totally happy. Hawke, however, had grown up in constant stress and hiding. Yet somehow, she and her family had managed to find happiness when they could, sometimes a lot of it, and Aya herself was not jaded. This fact alone was a true testament to her integrity, and Isabela wished she could see that.

"I was never so foolish again. I even tried to appreciate my magic, to make the most of it. I had to. Anytime I took it for granted or cursed what I was, anytime I got careless with my abilities, I would feel the old burn on my cheeks from when father had struck me. I'll always remember him as being a kind and even gentle man – gruff at times – though I'd be lying if I claimed that the sting of his open palm ever left my skin. I felt it when he died, when he demanded I protect our family. I felt it when Bethany charged that ogre, when Carver abandoned me. I felt it when mother died, perhaps worst of all. And I feel it now. I've _been_ feeling it. For a long time I've wondered what will cause this old pain to cease, and I think I understand…" She trailed off, letting the words hang precariously in the air. Isabela was sure she knew the answer, but she needed to _hear_ it, anyhow.

She sat upon her knees and faced Hawke, resting her hands nervously in her lap. Aya remained sitting with her back against the bed, eyes boring into the wall for the second time tonight. With her arms resting limply upon the floor and her skinny legs spread out before her, she looked like a doll – so eerily still, porcelain skin luminous in the moonlight, affecting her with a glass-like tinge. Her expression remained void and detached, her breathing shallow, and if not for her ever-fervent eyes, she would appear without emotion. Isabela could see though, hidden within those precious gems was a furor of activity, most of it negative, but not at all impassive. There were glaring cracks in the apostate's pessimism, and if anyone was capable of niggling their way inside of them, it would the pirate, for sure.

"And what will make it stop," she asked tentatively.

"Death. Mine, the templars', the mages'… there's no telling. We just have to wait. I'm trying to be patient, honestly, but I'm failing miserably. If I even just stop and think about it long enough my cheeks feel like they're on fire and I want to retch." She sighed, allowing her head to drop languidly. "I'm really no hero, Isabela. And I feel so remorseful over Kirkwall's reliance on me. It's going to end up getting a lot of people killed. I wish that weren't true, but… I'm just one woman." Now Isabela was the one disagreeing, in earnest. Her melancholy began to eat at her as the unease became overwhelming. She didn't realize how much she herself relied on the mage until she was forced to see her broken down, almost completely. Aya Hawke truly was a beacon – of hope, strength, and unflappable compassion – but most of all, of ineffably dazzling light. She was, perhaps, the only great constant in the pirate's life, like some eternal blaze that would blanket her in warmth and comfort. She dimmed now, but the fire and heat still smoldered. Isabela would rekindle that brilliant light – not because she needed to, but because she wanted to.

Mustering all the vigor she could afford in her tired, unnerved state, she abruptly knitted her fingers into the apostate's hair, and drew the woman towards her. Stopping so that their lips were barely an inch apart, she breathed deeply of her lover and spoke with a decided turbulence.

"You are only one woman, Aya. But _do not_ pretend that you are incapable. Many people will die – it is inevitable. Either of their own faults or the ideological faults of Kirkwall's leaders. But you have to see that this fault will never be yours. Because _you_ will do everything in your power to protect these people, whether they deserve it or not. For years you have fought for them, and bled for them, most of the time to little or no recognition. Anyone else would've given up, but you're still here. And yes, you're scared. You should be – you have every right to be. _Because you actually care, damnit._ Very few people can say that. Hell, if not for you, _I _wouldn't care. But for everything that you are, every fine example that you lead… I can't help but want to follow you." She cut herself off, shaking her head to correct the error in this statement. "No, I _need_ to follow you. For all the goodness you inspire. I will follow you down this path, regardless of the potential outcomes, as will the rest of our companions. Because… well, because you _are_ a hero, Aya. And as lonely as it may seem, you will never be alone. You will never have to shoulder this burden by yourself. I promise."

It wasn't until the brief and voluminous quiet ensued that Isabela realized Hawke had been holding her breath. For a few moments they sat there, foreheads touching, hearts beating rapidly, and mouths simply aching to connect. Then, without so much as a word, Aya crashed her lips into Isabela's, engulfing all her thoughts with a deep kiss. The pirate responded immediately, allowing their bodies to mesh. Slender fingers wove through tousled hair, chests heaved, and flesh exploded in a multitude of heated goosebumps. The turmoil and ardency of the moment descended upon them in swirling vortex of passion – fear, grief, hope, love. And just like that, the intensity fixed under their skin burst outwards, seeking the other with precise intent.

It was almost too great a challenge for Aya to pull away shortly, just to purge the last of her most prominent anxieties. Drawing a massive yet shaky breath, she said, "I believe every word you say, Bela. Sometimes _I _just feel like… maybe I'm not worth the trouble I cause you. And maybe you just haven't-"

"Hawke!" The pirate silenced her Champion by placing a hand insistently over her mouth. Plastering a most typical wicked grin across her face, she leaned in and set the woman straight. _"Just shut. Up. Okay?"_ Aya hesitated, as if to protest, but restrained herself, a look of begrudging agreement quelling her worries. Instead she nodded, poking out her tongue to tickle Isabela's palm. The rogue pulled back her hand, rolling her eyes at her lover's childishness, and Aya smiled. _Finally… a _real_ smile _– which of course provoked genuine satisfaction to etch itself into Isabela's face, as well. She chuckled lightly out of sheer relief and leaned forward, ready to engage Hawke in another searing kiss, but thought against it at the last minute. Rather, she brushed her lips sensually against the mage's cheek and pulled her into a concentrated embrace.

Their relationship was still so young and blissfully passionate (both women being extremely passionate individuals, each in their own way) that it wasn't quite often that they would simply embrace. The love they openly shared was new to both their bodies and minds, making it difficult to hug without the preface or promise of a kiss, or perhaps something more. As flagrantly sexual as she was, Isabela found that she didn't mind this facet of their love one bit, and Aya's often insatiable hunger confirmed that she shared the sentiment. However, sex, as glorious as it was, was not appropriate for _every_ situation. A pre-Hawke Isabela would've thought concept to be utter bullshit, but now… she knew it was true.

Because in that moment, worry and love and fate abounding, Isabela felt a most powerful, even physical need to hold onto Aya and not let go. Such a peculiar urge – it began with small, fluttering pulses upon the fringes of her chest, which rapidly expanded and snaked their way into her stomach like warm, wandering tentacles. This urge punctured her gut and spread through her body, injecting her with an incredible magnetism that drew her only to Hawke. She had no choice but to wrap her arms tightly around the woman and simply cling to her. And as she did so, a strange thought occurred to the pirate – the kind of thought that Aya would have, or at least read about in one of her books of poetry and romance. She felt like her arms were the rings orbiting a planet – strong and protective – constantly correcting Aya's immense gravitational pull. It was a dumb thought, she knew, but she actually kind of liked it. Just a little bit.

They sat on their knees for many minutes, holding each other firmly and refusing to let go. The insipid glow of the moon, as well as the ethereal hush of the night, wrapped around them as they coalesced, seemingly hiding them from the pressures of the city. It felt so safe, so separate from everything – separate enough that they could almost melt into each other and forget about their worries. This, of course, could never happen; but as they held each other, it almost seemed like it could.

"_Isabela," _Aya whispered after several minutes.

"_Hmm?"_

"_Thank you."_ Isabela squeezed her even tighter, their bodies pressing together as closely as possible.

"_You don't have to. I know I'm pretty new to this emotional stuff, but I also know that this is just the right thing to do… I love you, Hawke."_

* * *

Having not fallen asleep until very early that morning – perhaps four or five – the exhausted pair allowed themselves to sleep late. When they'd woken, Isabela was gripped with a ravenous hunger. Aya, on the other hand, was far more concerned with the fact that she'd slept half the day away. The pirate could only shrug, offering the apostate a casual comment about how Kirkwall would not fall apart while she dreamt, and then swiftly made her way to the kitchen. Hawke followed, wearing her robe and a mildly aggravated expression.

As on any other morning, Sandal and Bodahn greeted them exuberantly, the latter directing Aya to her writing desk. "A letter arrived for you not an hour ago, messere! The courier was wearing a pair of those robes that you magic folk find so favorable. I believe he was from the circle…" The dwarf's voice trailed off as Isabela entered the kitchen, poking around for whatever she could find. Eggs would've been delicious, perhaps toast, too. But she was too hungry to be patient, and settled for the immediate gratification of a juicy apple and a piece of buttered bread. She inhaled the bread quickly, and exited the kitchen still chomping on her apple, curious to see if she could persuade Hawke to cook them a proper breakfast.

All pleasant, menial thoughts of food were dashed, however, as Isabela entered the main room and registered the distressed look on Hawke's face. In her hand was a held a small, wrinkled piece of parchment and she was practically oozing her consternation.

"What's that," the pirate asked, nearing Aya with a quickened pace.

"It's from Orsino," she replied distractedly, still reading over the letter. Isabela knew it wasn't the first time. She soon took her place at the apostate's side, placing a hand upon her forearm questioningly. "There was an incident in the Gallows… something about a public display of blood magic. And of course there were templars present," she groaned, shaking her head before lifting her gaze to meet Isabela's. The fear was apparent in her eyes, and the pirate stiffened. "He needs me there."

"Now?"

"He said it appeared that this would be the last straw."

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**Still voicing my appreciation for all the reviews (as well as favorites, alerts, etc.)... please, keep them coming!**


	10. Chapter 10

**I'd first like to say that I realize there's a slight discrepancy in this chapter... as in I completely left out Carver. But don't worry, he'll make an appearance soon and have some most needed words with Hawke. **

**Next, there's a fair amount of dialogue from the game in here so _disclaimer:_ Bioware owns everything (except for Aya, I guess).**

**Finally, much thanks _again _to all those who keep on reading/reviewing/alerting and so on - I appeciate it tons!**

* * *

"_I fear there will be blood."_ The words of the frightened circle messenger echoed through Isabela's mind as she raced towards the circle, right on Hawke's heels. Like some sickly mantra, the implications of the mage's statement lingered within her ears, thrumming along with the dissonant clatter of booted feet (or otherwise plated, in Aveline's case) along Kirkwall's cobbled streets. The beating of her own heart, gripped in anticipatory adrenaline, sounded in her chest like a hollow drum. If she had any idea what she should be expecting, her body would not have reacted with such unrestrained anxiety. But in truth, none of them, leastwise their gallant apostate leader, had any idea what they were diving into.

Aya had received the first enchanter's inquisition not an hour earlier. She had immediately responded by hastily prepping her armor, and sending Bodahn to retrieve Aveline for her. Once the Guard Captain arrived, wary and alert, Hawke demanded they leave at once, fetching Anders and the rest of their companions along the way. Aveline, Varric, Merrill, Fenris – they were all caught unawares by the urgency in the Champion's tone, as well as what she insisted to be the pertinence of their timely intervention. Anders, however, regarded the situation with a degree of nonchalance that simply threw Isabela. If Aya herself had noticed, she did not show it; their other companions surely did, but none (except for Varric) knew fully what had transpired the last time the pair had been to the Darktown clinic. Stringently aware of his unwarranted stoicism, the pirate was unnerved. Their current exigency, however, left her with little room to ponder the healer's levity.

As she ran, she had to expend extra energy simply to keep pace with her fervent apostate lover. This fact surprised her, as normally, the rogue was _much_ quicker than Hawke. The woman was lithe, but merely a mage, nonetheless – she didn't naturally possess the physical aptitude of her Rivaini counterpart. But Aya's careful stride was now possessed with something beyond finesse: she was rapt by pure conviction. Despite the outpouring of fear and worry the woman had expressed the night prior, she now showed no signs of intimidation. She was once again the portrait of composure she had always felt that she'd _needed_ to be. This filled Isabela with a surge of pride; however, it also disheartened her. This immaculate veneer was feeble at best, and the pirate shuddered to think what simple occurrence might cause it to crack completely.

They reached the Gallows in little time, to find Meredith and Orsino standing on opposing sides before the stairs that led into the Circle tower. Each donned their respective weapons – Orsino with an elegant wooden staff, whose gnarled wood blackened near the top and split into the visages of dragon's heads; Meredith with her ornate great-sword, barbed at the hilt and broadening into a deathly sharp, crimson blade. Isabela had to take pause at the unusual craftsmanship of the Knight-Commander's weapon. Its blade emitted a harsh glow that could only be the product of some sort of enchantment.

As the two argued, each bolstered by the accompaniment of either their templar or mage followers, they paid no heed to the Champion's arrival.

"I will have the tower searched, top to bottom," Meredith asserted, her shrill voice clear against the eerily calm atmosphere of the day. Orsino's lip curled into an automatic sneer as he began to voice his protest. Isabela saw Hawke's eyes narrow as they halted only yards away from the divergent authorities. Immediately, the Champion barred her arms out before her companions, causing them to yield. The pirate continued to acknowledge the ever-turbulent accusations erupting from either side – both prattling on about their "rights" and the influence of blood magic – but trained her eyes upon Aya as the woman turned to them and hissed.

"_Keep a short distance – we don't want to impose. Be on guard though. I'm going to try and mediate this as best as I can, but I expect an altercation."_ The apostate swept her gaze over each of her companions in a fleeting attempt at imparting to them a sense of confidence. When her eyes met Isabela's, however, she faltered briefly, giving her lover a solemn nod. What she actually meant by this gesture, the pirate was unsure, but she returned it without hesitation in a display of her unwavering assent.

For a short moment, she was vaguely aware of the monumental gravity of their situation. For so many years Orsino and Meredith had been at each other's throats, furthering the age old struggle between the magi and the templars, as well as their precious chantry. Kirkwall was only an isolated example of the constant oppression, a microcosm of virulent hatred and rebellion, yet it stood to represent the endless toils of Hawke's kind with vast clarity. And here they were, standing upon an incredible precipice overlooking the mage's resistance, mere players in the dissident affair.

It was likely that she, Aya, and all their companions would be stained with blood by the day's end. It was likely that all civility between these adversaries would come crumbling down, giving way to tireless battle. It was likely everything would simply… explode. And perhaps, for this reason, Isabela should've been taking the time to absorb the minutiae of this great milestone in Kirkwall's history. She should've made note of the time of day, the location, the faces involved, and the words they spoke. But as Hawke strode forward, head held high, body surging with tightly restrained power to hurl herself amongst the conflict peaceably, Isabela could seem to focus on nothing but _her_.

"And _why_ are you fighting again," Aya asked, a firm and frustrating edge to her voice. Both Orsino and Meredith turned to acknowledge her, finally, and though the former wore a small and satisfied smirk, Meredith seemed none too happy about her appearance.

"This does not involve you, _Champion._" The Knight-Commander always seemed to refer to Hawke's title with such heavy reproach. Usually she was able to mask the disdain in her voice, but the current circumstances proved too trying to do so.

"_I_ called her here," Orsino interjected. "I think the people deserve to know just what you've done." Meredith rounded on the first enchanter, lips pursed as a venomous gleam overtook her blue eyes.

"What I have done is protect the people of this city, time and again. _What I have done_ is protect you mages from your _curse_ and your own stupidity! And I will _not_ stop doing it, I will not lower our guard! I dare not!" At the mention of the mages' supposed curse, Isabela noticed Aya tense. Thinking back to the woman's admission the night before, she imagined she was now feeling that old burn upon her face.

"Our 'curse'," Aya scoffed, fists clenched at her sides. _Watch yourself, Hawke,_ Isabela thought, fearing the woman was already starting to break. Her diplomacy was wearing thin, startlingly fast. "You mean our magic, am I right?" Meredith seemed to twitch at the apostate's sarcasm, anger boiling within her. "If so, then it is no more a _curse_ than your flagrant and exceedingly hateful persecution of our people." As the Knight-Commander stepped forward threateningly, the Champion raised her hands in a dutiful manner. She caught the severity in her own words, and reigned herself in. _Good, remain cautious._ "I do understand why you feel the need to search the tower, Knight-Commander. However, I find that I sympathize more with Orsino's opposition to it."

"Of course you do," Meredith spat. "You're one of them!" Isabela noted the harsh and contemptuous manner by which the cruel Commander viewed her mage. Perhaps it was her own possessiveness over Aya, or rather her protectiveness, but she found herself wanting to acquaint Meredith with her daggers. Of course, for the time being, she couldn't afford to step out of line, and so steeled her scornful urges and bit her tongue. She may get her chance to stab away her anger soon enough, but for now, she had to remain poised, if only for Hawke.

"I am not saying this is a mage. I am saying this as Kirkwall's Champion – someone who does not wish to witness or _incite_ needless bloodshed."

"Bloodshed is what you will receive if Meredith is granted entrance into the circle. For she will not stop if she does not find what she is looking for, Champion, mark my words. I shudder to think what lengths she would go to, simply to root out an evil that is not there!" Aya had to agree with what Orsino said, but she did not – could not – show it. Instead, she cocked her head briefly in the elf's direction, casting him a warning glare before turning back to Meredith.

"I am sure the Champion is aware how deep the circle's corruption runs, Orsino. I _must_ find the source of these wrongs."

"Wait," Hawke said, stepping forward quickly with her palms raised to both the mage and the templar. "One way or another, whether you search this tower or not, Meredith, there will be outrage. Don't you see? You cannot make a decision that heavily favors either of your views, not now. We must find a compromise." Both Meredith and Orsino seemed to reasonably consider Aya's words. However, it was obvious both had made their decisions long before this argument had arisen. They were too stubborn, too petulant to ever concede to some sort of compromise.

"And what other options do we have," Meredith questioned, motioning towards her templar allies. "Should we look the other way? Tell the poor victims of a possessed mage that we meant no harm? Tell me, Champion, that you have not seen with your own eyes what horrors your people are capable of, heard the lies of mages that seek power."

"You-" Hawke appeared to hesitate for a moment. Was there a part of her that believed Meredith was correct? Maybe, deep down, but she would never allow it to influence her, Isabela knew. "How many mages do you suppose there are in Kirkwall? And I'm not just talking about circle mages – I'm talking about well-concealed apostates, too. Our numbers are great, Meredith, far greater than even you know. And when compared to the number of mages that have submitted themselves to the use of blood magic, it is staggering. You cannot use the mistakes of those few to condemn our people as a whole."

"Yes! You would cast us _all_ as villains, but it is not so!" Hawke went rigid at Orsino's interjection. She agreed with the man's views and would support him, but only if his over-zealousness and preaching did not first get them killed. Isabela was ready for the Knight-Commander to turn around and run the elf through with her great-sword, but surprisingly, she did not. Instead, she regarded him with a furrowed and even remorseful brow, her piercing eyes suddenly softening with solemnity.

"I know… and it breaks my heart to do it, but we _must _be vigilant." Her voice had lowered radically, and the pirate was made uneasy by how… regretful she seemed, as she was sure Hawke was, too. Then, suddenly, the remorse was dashed and in its place derision burned. "If you cannot tell me another way, do not brand _me_ a tyrant!"

"This is getting us nowhere," Orsino remarked, aggravation plain as he shook his head. "Grand Cleric Elthina will put a stop to this…" The first enchanter made a move in the direction of the chantry, perhaps in the most sensible decision he'd made since their arrival, but Meredith refused. She grabbed the mage gruffly by the arm and forced him back, absolute malice seething from her form.

"_You will not bring her grace into this!"_ Made anxious by the sudden hatred that had once again taken place in the Knight-Commander's demeanor, Aya leaned forward as if to intercede; however, Anders did not give her the chance.

"The Grand Cleric cannot help you." His voice was calm yet commanding – very much Anders, yet also distinctly Justice. As Isabela realized this, she had to stifle a groan, balling her fists at her side in an attempt to suppress her irritation. _What does he think he's doing? Orsino is doing a good enough job of enflaming the situation without the help of a spirit of vengeance. He's only going to make it worse,_ the pirate thought anxiously. There was a time when she knew Anders to be kind and gentle enough that he would not dare endanger his friends or fellow mages, but now it seemed he would stop at nothing to make sure his ideals prevailed above all else. He was like a total incendiary.

"Explain yourself, mage!" The healer swaggered pompously before Meredith, wielding his staff freely. It was extremely difficult to believe he could ever consider himself to be an accurate representation of the magi and their struggle – not with the way he so casually flaunted his magic before the Knight-Commander. As he came to a halt beside Aya, paying her little mind, she turned to him and glared. Isabela wasn't entirely sure, but she thought she heard Hawke quietly hiss _"What are you doing?"_ Anders, however, refused to acknowledge her.

"I will _not_ stand by and watch you treat all mages like criminals." He pounded the blunt end of his staff once into the ground, to emphasize his point. "While those who would lead us bow to their templar jailors." Orsino appeared particularly offended over this statement, but in a way, Isabela suspected that he'd directed it at Hawke, as well. The way she tensed beside him while he ignored her quiet protests completely confirmed it.

"How dare you speak to me-" Anders cut off the first enchanter with another resonating hammer from his staff, this one more forceful than the last.

"The circle has failed us, Orsino! Even you," he pointed an accusatory finger at the elf, his eyes suddenly glowing a cold, luminous blue as Justice's influence took hold of him. The skin of his face and hands appeared fractured over the light, like the cracked cobblestones of the Gallows' unkempt streets, and positively ablaze. Startled, Aya called his name and reached out to him in an attempt to bring him down from his vengeance-hungry pedestal like no other could, but he merely pushed her away. When the pirate saw his palm connect roughly with Hawke's shoulder, jarring her, her first instinct was to lunge forward and knock him on his ass properly; however, Aveline placed a hand on her shoulder, restraining her.

"_We have to keep our distance, Isabela,"_ she whispered.

"_But, he-"_

"_For Hawke."_ Isabela hesitated. She'd never had any qualms with undermining the Guard-Captain's authority in the past, but she had to admit that Aveline was right. They had to be respectful, for Hawke's sake. So instead, she merely gritted her teeth, keeping her hands close to the hilts of her daggers.

"Even you should be able to see that! The time has come…" Just as quickly as Justice's electric blue glow captured Anders' body, it receded, and his face fell in abject despair. "… to act. There can be no half measures." He turned his back on Orsino and Meredith, but Aya followed him, caution and reproach quite obvious in her step.

"Anders… what have you done?" The quietly spoken question etched distress into her features like a knife. She didn't dare to reach out to him this time, but stood her ground, nonetheless. Isabela, too, wondered the same exact thing, as did the rest of their companions: what had Anders done?

"There can be no turning back." His head hung despondently as he situated himself in a pall of shadows. Orsino and Meredith looked to Hawke, knowing her to be his companion and close friend. The pair did not voice their orders, but they were apparent in their pointed glowers, regardless. Frowning, Aya looked upon the healer with a scrutinizing gaze and opened her mouth to speak. She stopped short as an abrupt rumbling could be felt under their feet; the worn, filthy concrete quaking as though a high dragon would soon burst from the bowels of Kirkwall's under-city and swallow them whole.

Isabela's eyes darted quick in Anders' direction, and though it was obvious that whatever was about to happen was _his_ doing, he showed no indication of it. There was no remorse, no fury or grief; he simply wore a mask of raw, bestial pain. Though this façade expressed no guilt or implications of ill-intent, though it was near impassive in the dim light he'd sheathed himself in, the pirate swore she'd never seen something so depraved in all her life.

Her gaze was lifted from the healer as a near guttural roar erupted in the distance, emitted from an unmistakably tall and ornate stone building: the chantry. As soon as she connected that acute, tremulous rumble to the templars' haven, the makings of an act of terror began to fall into place in her mind. _A roar, a crash – falling apart. The chantry is falling apart. "The Grand Cleric cannot help you." That's what he said, because… because the Grand Cleric is inside the chantry. And the chantry is-_

Her rapid, disjointed train of thought crashed violently as two blinding, violet beams shot out through the chantry's roof, blowing off concrete and shingles like flecks of dust. She was certain that she gasped, her jaw already slackened, just as the others did, but nothing could be heard over the shrill roar of those two beams. They appeared endless, poking holes into the sky and fizzling off somewhere well beyond infinity. It would be a beautiful sight, if it weren't so absolutely horrific.

The beams reached higher, broadening their width and inching closer to each other. Rays of intense luminosity seeped through every miniscule crack found along the aged structure, spilling out and obtrusively pushing the building apart – brick by brick, second by second. The walls crumbled at an ungodly speed as the fattened beams of light reached towards the Maker and coalesced, drawing concrete, Earth, stone, and perhaps even _people_ into a hauntingly radiant maelstrom. The collapse was thrust upward until the entire Chantry – once grand and magnificent – was now held aloft in a stunningly awful ball of light and stone.

In that single moment, the roaring ceased, and all was quiet. There wasn't a set of eyes among them, or perhaps in all of Kirkwall, that wasn't completely transfixed upon the mangled Chantry vortex. It was an amazing sight – simultaneously terrifying and utterly glorious – so glorious that it almost seemed to stop time itself. They could've been standing there, mouths gaping wide for hours; however, just as all good things must come to an end, so must all dreadful things. Without warning, that ball of light erupted, the explosion disintegrating most pieces of the Chantry, but sending its charred remains soaring through the air to taper off and fall into the city streets in floating, feather-light chunks.

What a spectacle: aside from the muffled, anguished cries that now carried along the breeze – ethereal, as if in a dream – it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. In the hush, a shower of ash drizzled down upon them silently, like an obsidian snowstorm. Isabela had never seen anything like it before, and also hoped she would never see anything like it again. Her gaze sought out her lover, who stood with her back to her, framed in the soft, swirling bits of blackness. Her hands were placed firmly on either side of her head in a gesture of complete shock. Isabela could not see her face, but could imagine how it would appear: lips round and parted, bright green eyes wide beneath a crumpled brow. Isabela longed to reach out to her, but found she could not yet move.

"There can be no peace…" Anders' emotionless voice pulled the pirate from her wistful thoughts. He turned back to face the first enchanter, who now regarded him with burning inquiry.

"Why… why would you do such a thing?" She supposed everyone should be furious at him – in fact, Meredith and Orsino both should be vying for a chance to take his head off – but everyone was still too shocked to be angry.

"I removed the chance of compromise… because there is no compromise." He looked in Aya's direction as he said this; however, now it was her turn to ignore him. She stared blankly in the place where the Chantry had stood tall only moments ago, hands still holding her head like a vice.

There was a brief pause as everyone came to from their sullen musing, and then Meredith spoke up. "The Grand Cleric has been _slain_ by magic. The Chantry destroyed," she said quietly, her voice growing in volume as she registered her revulsion. As her hatred came to fruition, she turned to face Anders, Hawke, and Orsino, as well as the rest of the mages. "As Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, I hereby invoke the rite of annulment! Every mage in the circle is to be executed, immediately!"

"Meredith, this was not the circle's doing," Orsino pleaded, though the Knight-Commander's face remained ice cold. He turned to Hawke then, his mossy eyes still wide and plaintive. "Champion, you can't let her… help us stop this madness!"

Now the Knight-Commander turned to face Aya, as well, her glare poisonous. "And I demand you stand with us! Even _you_ must see that this outrage _cannot_ be tolerated!"

Everyone was gazing upon the Champion now: Meredith, Orsino, her companions. And every one of them was voicing their opinions amongst the chaos. Hawke remained stock-still though, eyes fixed on the chantry's former location, hands held in place upon her blonde hair, now darkened with soot. However, Anders then turned to her and spoke.

"It can't be stopped now. You have to choose, Aya." Perhaps it was the way he said her name – accusing, yet laced with sympathy, as though he had any idea what position he had placed her in – but Hawke had been roused. Her hands fell to her sides and curled into white-knuckled fists as she turned to Anders with a rapidly darkening stare.

"Was that… why you asked me to distract the Grand Cleric for you?" His gaze softened and fixed upon her with something akin to pity. _You're going to _pity her_, Anders? Do you have a death-wish? _Isabela could feel the anger churning in her stomach, just as she was sure it was in Hawke's. To think that he'd even attempted to implicate Aya – the Champion of Kirkwall, fighting for the freedom of innocent people – by involving her in his foolish plot made her want to beat him. She hoped Hawke would do the honors, but at this point, she really wasn't sure _what_ the woman would do. This was unusual, seeing as Isabela knew Aya better than perhaps any other living person.

"If you knew what I was doing, you would have felt honor-bound to stop me. I couldn't take that chance." Hawke laughed – a sound so hollow and malicious it made the pirate's stomach drop. Anders pressed on though, regardless. "The circle is an injustice. In many places, beyond Kirkwall. The world needs to see!"

"You fool, you've doomed us all," Orsino admonished, and Isabela was glad for it. Better that the first enchanter voice his opinion than Aya, at least now. Hawke was not used to feeling this kind of raw anger – if she didn't have a few moments to calm down… well, the rogue didn't even know what would happen.

"We were already doomed! A quick death now or a slow one later… I'd rather die fighting." Hawke advanced on Anders rapidly, pointing a finger reproachfully in his face.

"Fighting? In order for there to be a _fight, _Anders, both sides need to have the bloody chance to defend themselves! The Grand Cleric, the mages… they knew nothing. No," she shook her head, almost disbelievingly, as though the words tasted entirely too sour upon her tongue. "This was _murder_! And you are the murderer… their blood is on your hands…"

"I know," he replied, sadness apparent on his face. He appeared remorseful, but Isabela had to wonder why. Was it because he was a killer, or because Hawke _knew_ he was?

"It doesn't matter," Meredith interrupted. "Even if I wished to, I could not stay my hand. The people will demand blood." The Knight-Commander trained her gaze expectantly upon the Champion. Was this it – was it time for her to choose sides? Hawke's allegiance seemed fairly obvious, regardless of Anders' corrupt actions, yet Meredith still looked upon her as though her place remained with the templars.

Aya stared hard at Meredith for a few long moments before she quietly said, "I never wanted to get involved." This was clearly _not _the answer the Knight-Commander was looking for, as her features twisted into a mask of sudden rage.

"You've always been – you are the _Champion of Kirkwall_! Do your _duty_, or fall with these mages… it is your choice!" _Or fall…_ the words seared into Isabela with startling stringency. Meredith would gladly take Aya as an ally if offered, but if she were to become an enemy, she would relish in killing the apostate. The thought made the pirate sick.

"I won't allow you to slaughter all of these mages." She turned away from Meredith as she spoke, perhaps afraid to meet her gaze. Beside Isabela, she saw Aveline begin to shake her head as she stepped forward, just slightly.

"Hawke, if you do this… I don't know that I can follow." Aya turned back to her dear friend and nodded, a small, regretful smile curled over her lips. She then turned to each of her companions as they voiced their thoughts. No matter what they said, they would all follow her – even Fenris, who regarded Anders and Orsino as though they were one in the same.

When Hawke's eyes landed on Isabela, the pirate knew her support was the most blatant thing in the world. All she said was, "You can do this." Simple – yet it elicited a genuinely grateful smile from Hawke, one which Isabela returned.

"Think carefully, Champion. Stand with them and you share their fate." The apostate turned back to Meredith, still wearing the same, small smile.

"I apologize that it must be this way, but I will _not_ help you."

* * *

Hawke stood behind Anders, her body tense and trembling slightly with a mixture of raw emotion. Orsino had left them just moments again, a scowl plastered on his face as he bitterly demanded that the Champion decide the fate of her old friend. The healer sat on a decrepit crate placed haphazardly among the lifeless templar bodies, staring listlessly into the distance with his back to his companions. When he spoke, his voice was not his own.

"There's nothing you can say that I haven't already said to myself. I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever to achieve this. This is the justice all mages have awaited." Hawke ran her hands over her face in an exhausted, despairing manner. Isabela had to wonder who she was so aggrieved for – a friend who had fallen too far, or the innocents he had slain. The pirate could only assume it was a painful mixture of both.

"The audacity, Anders – of your actions, your accusations – and now you sit here and tell me not to speak, that I can say nothing of importance to you-"

"That isn't what I said," he disrupted weakly, much to her chagrin. She exasperatedly threw her hands to her sides in tight fists as she towered over him.

"It doesn't matter what you said! I know what you meant, damnit. And… Maker, Anders. I feel sick." And she did look sick, or so the pirate thought, as the usually vibrant blonde had fallen ashen in the luminous pastels of the afternoon. Granted, Aya's complexion was normally as blanched as a fine piece of alabaster, but never without a healthy glow. Both her warm personality and effervescent magic assured that.

However, there was no glow now; no zeal or infectious display of self-sacrificing fortitude. Betrayal had robbed her of that light, regardless of who Anders' actions were directed towards. Setting off that bomb (or whatever the damn thing was) had cut Hawke like a knife. The way she now wore her heart – bloody and pulsing furiously upon her sleeve – was a testament to it.

"You're a… a bloody murderer," she muttered, her voice choked. That broken sound was enough to make Isabela want to beat the healer senseless, more so than he already deserved.

"Am I a murderer," he inquired haughtily. Hawke appeared staggered by what she deemed the utter stupidity of his question. "Were my intentions so foul?"

"… You _killed_ innocent people. You mercilessly-" Anders was once again overtaken with the sudden, cold glow of Justice's light, stretching taut over his face like a sardonic mask.

"Do not be a fool, prattling on with your childish ideals!" Just as quickly as Justice came, he went. The way he seemed to slip in and out of Anders as of late – swiftly and effortlessly, with almost no resistance from his host – was deeply unsettling. Rather, it was dangerous. "Maybe I'm too righteous for my own good," he said tiredly, "but I'm not naïve. I see that, sometimes… a select few must be sacrificed for the greater good." Even Isabela was shocked by the lack of regret in his tone – she, a woman who had spent most of her life making mistakes, causing destruction, and never looking back. She could only imagine how absolutely staggered Hawke felt.

"But… that's…" _The sacrifice of a select few for the greater good. _Anders' reasons presented to Aya a moral conundrum she did not find easy to swallow – a true test of what she had always known to be _right_ and _good._ The healer had called her a fool because he assumed she failed to see the practicality and logic of his conviction, but that was not true. Blowing up the chantry had been a shade of grey, a shade Aya was not blind to. She herself dabbled in the grey area from time to time, when necessary; however, there were some things that would always appear to her in black and white. Innocence, for example, was and always would be an incomparable virtue. To _slaughter_ innocence, particularly without remorse, was an irrevocable wrong. "It doesn't change the fact that you murdered them, Anders," was her quiet concession.

He paused wistfully, rigid as a wooden plank and perhaps just as emotionless. Finally, in a voice detached, he said, "In order for a necessary change to occur, some evils, too, are necessary. _This-_" He motioned towards the location where the chantry had once stood "-needed to happen. If you can't see that, Hawke, then your morality truly blinds you. Deluded by the Champion's title, perhaps. _I_ am just a common man, haunted by the injustices that we mages have suffered-"

"And driven by vengeance," Hawke added, the heat in her voice searing. "Blind in your own right."

"If that is what you truly believe…" Anders merely shrugged. "I am… _aware_ that what I have done is quite awful. But after witnessing the extremities of prejudice for so many years, I have become disenchanted with the crooked ideals that morality boasts. Someday, you will become disenchanted, too." She was quick to refute his claim.

"After what I have endured in this life, how can you say that to me?" He shook his head matter-of-factly.

"The Maker has been unfair to you, Aya, but not unjust. He has taken your loved ones from you at every turn, but… there are worse things in this bleak existence." He abruptly let out a harsh chuckle, its caustic edge hanging plainly in the ash-heavy air. "Perhaps it is best that you never reciprocated my feelings. Otherwise, I'm afraid I would not have made it this far in my work. I almost feel bad for Isabela." His last words were tinged in pure bitterness – the bite of an endlessly jealous man. She held no illusions about his feeling that way, but the fact that he _said_ it truly surprised her.

"Excuse me," Isabela immediately exclaimed, taking one loaded step forward before Aveline restrained her. Hawke, however, charged Anders, grabbing him roughly by the collar and slamming him to the ground with roguish strength. Her fury made her more nimble, more deathly precise in her movements. Isabela was glad for it, as the heat boiled over in her stomach.

"Enough of this, Anders! You're petty, jaded… can't you see? Your judgment is _clouded._ Even now, when you should be begging for repentance, you flaunt your resentment like a weapon."

"You don't get it, Hawke," he said rapidly, slightly choked under her grasp. "I won't ask for repentance! I know what I have done, how I feel. That comment was… uncalled for, I admit, but I won't ask for forgiveness. I just need you to see… I don't deserve it. There's but one thing that I deserve now." For one long, icy moment, their eyes were locked upon each other in a frenzied staring match. Hawke's expressive green eyes, popping with emotion, set against the insipid, honey orbs languidly sitting in Anders' skull. Then, he sighed and quietly said, "I knew how this would end before it ever started. I have taken the lives of many, and now my own life must be taken. You have to end me, Aya." In a heartbeat she dropped his collar, letting him fall lethargically to the ground with a dull thud. She stood aghast, completely dejected by his forward request for death.

"I _have_ to," she asked quietly, the shock evident in her voice. She repeated the principle once more for good measure, as slow comprehension dawned on her. "I have to end you?" She looked back achingly over her shoulder, longing to see the recognition in her companions' eyes. The way she gazed upon them – fear and stifling reluctance flickering over her face – her lips parted in an unasked question: _what should I do?_ It reminded the pirate of the way a child might look, about to plunge into the water for the first time, still lacking a comfortable ability to swim. _Should I do it, _their large, rounded eyes would inquire. _Will I be okay?_ Those eyes seemed to encapsulate Aya's features, her innocence and morality ebbing away in uncertainty. She hated uncertainty, Isabela knew, and she wished she had a right answer for Hawke; but in truth, there probably wasn't one. The repercussions would hurt, no matter the choice.

Isabela's brow crumpled when her eyes connected with Aya's. From where she stood, four or five yards away, she could hear the apostate's silent plea. _I don't think I can do this on my own,_ tumbled from her open mouth, like a ghostly hand that slithered through the air and gripped the pirate's shoulder. She didn't know what she should do though – she'd never been faced with a moral quandary such as this.

"I've been counting on it, Hawke," Anders said, his voice chilled in resolve. As soon as his confession reached Aya, her lips curled in a foreign snarl and she whipped around to face him, her body trembling with renewed fury. _Counting on it?_

"So what? All along you've just been… banking on the fact that I would _kill_ you? So you wouldn't have to face the consequences?" The healer shook his head as he stood, his eyes narrowed.

"That is my consequence: death. By _your_ hand… the hand of a friend." For Anders to even refer to Hawke as a friend was, at this point, a complete slap in the face. In fact, she quite nearly stumbled back at the word, rocked by her burgeoning fury. Isabela clenched her fists. _If she doesn't kill him, I might have to,_ she thought bitterly.

"That's not a consequence, Anders, or a bloody punishment! Its recompense… a _kind_ death by an _old friend_ to avenge your crime," she mocked him cruelly. Isabela was almost frightened by the shrill pitch of her voice, the very real sparks that buzzed around her body. "How dare you! You made this bed, but you didn't want to lie in it. _However,_" she laughed a terribly astringent laugh, "you _would_ have _me_ lie in, wouldn't you? You would have me bear the guilt of your Maker forsaken death while _you…_ you are set free…" She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders and back muscles writhing lightly as she struggled to contain an outburst of magic she would undoubtedly regret. Then, with a quietly acidic voice she said, "You son of a bitch."

Hawke smacked Anders _hard_ across his face, the resounding crack bouncing off the cobblestones and seeming to strike them all in turn. He staggered backwards by a combination of power and surprise, landing on his backside and looking up at Aya with earnest alarm. Without missing a beat, she promptly grabbed him once again by the collar and bent down so that her face was perhaps only an inch from his. Isabela struggled to hear what she then hissed in his face, but hear she did, and her lover's words coiled knots in the pit of her stomach.

"_You listen to me: if I am going to die at the end of a templar's blade, then damnit, you will, too. Now get. Up." _Anders was awash with panic when he realized Hawke would not deliver the death he deserved, that he had been waiting for all along. He complied, however, standing tentatively and a bit shakily, reaching a hand towards her.

"Aya, I-" She recoiled, letting an almost bestial growl escape her lips.

"No! You will receive no favors from me, abomination!" All of Hawke's companions knew that the title of "abomination" was a well-deserved one for Anders. What they did not know is that Aya had never, in her entire life, referred to another mage as such. After a lifetime of being called and thought of as a monster, the scathing label hit too close to home. And to use that name now, to pin it on a man who had once been a dear friend and in memory always would be, made her heart ache fiercely.

Willing a tear not to roll from her eye, she inhaled a sharp breath, her whole body wracked with a shudder in the process. Then, as her voice was stricken with a wavering and remorseful calm, she said, "Take to the city and _fight_ properly. Deter as many templars as you can. At best, you will escape and you will have the rest of your life to bear the shame of your actions. If not, you will either be slaughtered or made tranquil. Either way, you'll get what you bloody well deserve: misery." Anders stood staring at Hawke for a moment, sorrow oozing from his every pore. How awful it must have been for him to hear the woman he'd spent years loving hate him so vocally. _Good,_ Isabela thought. But, in a last ditch effort in self-preservation, he steeled himself from his shock and sheathed himself in a stony mask. "Get out of my sight." He nodded, picking up the staff he'd previously discarded and darting away from them at an incredible speed. He met the eyes of no one as he passed their vicious glares, boring into his back intensely.

When the healer was gone, no words were spoken – not at first. There were none appropriate for what had just occurred – a chantry decimated, and along with it, many innocent lives; a proverbial blade plunged into the back of a friend in a betrayal of trust; a city's Champion shaken almost beyond her bounds, left to clean up a mess she did not make. It truly was madness, the entire disturbing situation. Normally, in such a moment, Hawke or Aveline, with all their good sense and commanding leadership, would urge the group on to complete their current objective. But when the objective was potential suicide, incited by _Anders _nonetheless, it was hard to do anything but stand and listen to the palpitations of one's own heart.

Finally, without a sound or thought, Isabela strode forward, her step cautious and concerned, and gripped Aya's arm tenderly. She could feel the goosebumps on the other woman's clammy skin; hear her quiet, ragged breathing. Fearing Hawke may faint, she squeezed her arm gently and attempted to pull her around. The mage didn't budge; however, she also didn't seem to be resisting, which puzzled Isabela. She almost seemed to fall into her pirate's touch.

"Aya," her voice was soft and even, "you need to take a moment to catch your breath."

"I'm going to be catching my breath for a long time," was the apostate's low and immediate reply. The words sent a chill down the pirate's spine. To help abate the unwelcome anxiety, she pressed her lips chastely to Hawke's shoulder. Aya seemed to appreciate the gesture, as reached over her left hand to press gently, yet somehow desperately into the nape of Isabela's neck. With a hitch in her breath, she spoke again. "Bela… we have to move."

And she _knew_ they had to move, even without the insistence in Hawke's voice. But there was nothing she would have rather done more than stand completely still with her lover beside her, safely away from harm. Regardless, she was quite painfully aware of what needed to be done.

"Together, we will." When she looked up, Aya smiled at her, her green eyes glazed over with unshed tears. It was perhaps the smallest smile she had ever seen the mage wear; but she was more grateful for it that any that had come before.

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**So, you all know I love your reviews and such. Keep them coming... but I also have a request.**

**As I'm sure you can tell, this story is nearing its end, and many of you have expressed a desire for a sequel. Personally, I would really enjoy writing one, and have had some... interesting (unexpected) ideas floating around my head in regards to a part 2. However, I would love to know what _you _would like to see in a sequel. After all, I'd be writing it for you guys... so please, in a review or PM, send some of your ideas my way, and let me know what you'd like!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Oh my... I apologize for the delay. I will admit to having writer's block pretty bad on this. But here it is... _half_ of what I planned for the final chapter. It was getting to be super long, so I thought I'd cut it into two chapters. No worries though, I will have part two up much quicker than part one!**

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_Sincere._ Sometimes, it was truly the most fitting word Isabela could think of to describe Aya Hawke. She was disarmingly guileless, in both her words and her actions. Being the insufferable romantic that she was, she had been known to deliver the most eloquent and passionate of proclamations to her pirate in all the most candid of moments. With little more than a few heady and heated whispers, she could disassemble every one of Isabela's reservations or restraining pretenses. On more than a few occasions, she'd even managed to elicit a _tear_ from the usually snarky, roguish beauty. To a woman who had spent the entirety of her adult life despising such dramatic and seemingly contrived discourse, Aya's ingenuous words could be absolutely maddening. Admittedly though, not for the reasons the pirate would have initially thought.

The apostate's sweet nothings drove her crazy not because she felt them to be false or foolish – on the contrary, her words were always presented with a measure of unabashed honesty that made Isabela _quiver_. No, those tender proclamations drove her crazy because, against all odds, beyond all common sense, and outside of any reason, they had needled their way under her skin. Those delightfully poignant words had gripped her in a way that made her utterly _long_ for them, emotionally, mentally, and physically. She could taste every loving syllable on her tongue like an agonizingly sweet honey, hear them resounding in every corner of her mind, feel them burning under her skin with inexorable desire.

As if her words were not enough, however, Aya also had the most terrific knack for weakening Isabela's knees with… well, _barely even_ a smile, if truth be told. Over the years, Isabela had become attuned to the subtlest of Hawke's nuances, even coming to rely on them as emotional cues. The rogue in her knew how important the power of observation was; interestingly enough though, the lover in her understood the significance, as well. At any given time, it was exceedingly difficult for Aya to hide her emotions from the pirate (not that they were particularly well-concealed to begin with).

For instance, if ever Aya was particularly puzzled over something that had been said to her, _but_ she was trying to hide it so as not to seem "stupid," her features would set into a believably serious, comprehending mien. She would narrow her eyes in a way that indicated she was contemplating the truth in the matter, when in reality, she was trying to deduce what exactly it meant. The corner of her mouth would dip slightly as she nibbled on the flesh, a tiny, unbidden pout gracing her lush lips, and her pupils would shrink just as they did whenever she felt she was being deceptive or sneaky. It was comical, yes, but wholly endearing in a way that warmed Isabela to the core.

She was sincere in the ease with which she had captivated and committed an intolerably noncommittal woman. With words, gestures, fleeting grazes of a hand or cheek. With secrets told and secrets she'd allowed Isabela to keep, so as not to push her beyond her means. As much as the pirate hated to admit such a terribly trite thought, there truly was something magical about Aya Hawke, something that extended well beyond her powers as a mage.

The Champion was, by no stretch of the imagination, perfect though. She was charming and sweet, of course, but she could also be a sincere _pain in the ass_. She was overly compassionate at times, stubborn as the day was long, and Isabela was well acquainted with the fact that she talked in her sleep, babbling on about the most ridiculously incoherent dreams (she'd once propositioned the pirate for sex, liquor, and a puppy, all in the same unconscious ramble).

One of her greatest faults, however, was that she almost _never _had a plan. No matter the level of danger in a conflict, she was winging it, nine out of ten times. Of course, you wouldn't know this just by watching her – she had the most remarkable talent for working off the cuff and under immense pressure – but to those who knew her best, it was at times painstakingly obvious. Their bloody flight to the docks was a terrific example of this shortcoming.

Hawke's destination was clear, as were her intentions. The overall objective was still a bit muddy, and the plan was loose at best. Her exact strategy had been nothing but a more verbose iteration of: _"Head for the docks. Run fast. Stab and/or blow up anything that tries to stop us. Don't get yourself killed."_ There was a bit more care and concern to her version, but when stripped down to its simplest form, that was what she had said, with a stringent emphasis on the not getting killed part.

They had found there was plenty that would _try _to kill them though – templars, hysterically frightened circle mages turned maleficarum, and the abominations that sprung up in their wake. If it wasn't frightening or contrite, particularly to Hawke, who found herself grievously appalled by how many good mages had been pushed to the brink of wickedness by the templars' persecution, then it was simply exhausting. On any other occasion, it would only have taken them a brisk ten minutes to arrive at the docks, but Isabela was certain they'd already been fighting for over an hour.

After dispensing yet another batch of abominations in what was but a long line of blood-thirsty adversaries, the pirate heaved a sigh of relief, knowing their destination was near. She could hear the ocean's waves lapping agitatedly against Kirkwall's concrete shores, clouded in an unusually murky, gray haze that Isabela and her companions found just a bit too foreboding. Regardless, the sweet, stinging aroma of salt bit into her cheeks, filling her nostrils soothingly. No matter the situation, there was always comfort for the rogue to find in the relentless sea. Now, that comfort seemed particularly colder than usual, but she relished in it, nonetheless.

"We're… close," Hawke commented, rubbing her palm against a stitch in her side as she drew in short breaths. Every one of them, except for the ever-spry pirate and their brick wall of a Guard Captain, seemed to be just a little bit worse for the wear. The mages, specifically, were drained by the impetuous physical demands of the day. There had once been a time when Hawke had hurled herself into the fray during battle, but her recklessness had wilted with the heartache Isabela had quashed, and she now remained cautiously at a distance during their altercations, alongside Merrill. The templars were not comfortable with allowing two mages to fight along the fringes, however; they were insistently violent towards Aya and Merrill, drawing them from their comfort zone and forcing them into danger. It had tired the mages, to say the least.

"You seem a bit worn out, sweet thing. Guess you've been getting lazy recently, haven't you," she jibed lightly, an impish grin on her face. She wasn't sure if Hawke needed her humor right now; but Hawke _did_ need her to be strong. And damnit, she was relying on her sarcasm for strength.

"I have, haven't I? Spending my days languishing about Hightown, sitting on my ass getting fat and drunk," she countered, her voice thickly laden with mock guilt before it became intoned with a wryness to rival the pirate's. "Oh, wait… but I've actually been saving the freaking city from-" The apostate was cut off when the sound of clashing steel erupted below them, in the exact direction they were supposed to be heading in. Aya immediately smacked her palm against her forehead and ground her teeth. "Great. I jinxed myself."

"Oh, you did, love," Isabela said, letting out an honest chuckle. She cupped Aya's cheek gently as she passed, smiling mischievously while she gripped the dagger she'd never had the chance to sheath. Much to her surprise, Hawke grinned back at her, the mischief mirroring itself in her emerald orbs as she eyed her pirate appreciatively. The mage was cracking, yes, but she was not yet broken. And with that fire still burning within her, Isabela hoped her fortitude would not waver either.

"Then, bugger… I might as well try and enjoy it, hmm?" The sentiment was a tad forced – as evidence by the slightly bitter tinge to her voice – but there were hints of honesty in Hawke's words that couldn't be denied. There was no way Isabela was going to argue though, as they all charged towards their next battle together. They _were_ exhausted and filthy – caked in blood and sweat and grime. They were all aching in their own ways, either physically or mentally. Some of their wounds were of the flesh, and others of the heart; but it almost didn't matter. Anders had betrayed them all, had willingly driven them to the brink of war. Nonetheless, they were still a team – they were friends, with or without Anders or the templars.

They descended the concrete steps with a seasoned combination of fervency and sensible trepidation. They had been fighting for so many years, either together or apart, that the adrenaline and caution of battle had slowly bled into a single nectar by which they could all partake. They thrived in each others' presences, slipping effortlessly into a formation they had all but perfected years prior.

Isabela and Aveline were at the helm of the attack, as always. Opposites they may be, but in the throes of battle, they could merge into a near unstoppable force. The pirate – deadly grace and skilled fluidity – wove in and out of bodies, lashing out her daggers with a precision that had reminded many an enemy of their apparent mortality. The warrior – blunt force and stalwart defense – an aggressive sentinel who protected with the ardency of a mama bear – guarded her cubs from harm. They'd managed to mesh their respective talents in battle, drawing enemies towards their vortex of power and keeping them busy while the ranged attackers decimated from afar.

They were weary, yes, but both mages still flourished with incredible power. Merrill commanded the primal and entropic magics with tremendous control, aptly disproving the image of incompetence most people saw her as. True, she was innocent, and plagued by unbreakable naivety, but she was keenly intelligent (in her own way), and ardently convicted by the use of her power. This finely honed skill coupled well with the raw and seemingly effortless force by which Hawke controlled the elements. She could summon torrid storms of flame or ice with little more than a flick of the wrist or blink of the eyes. After observing the woman for so many years, knowing the toll that was taken on her at the end of each day, Isabela was aware that within, Aya required far more magical exertion than she would ever show. This unbending composure was part of her display of power – swift, tempered, yet teeming with unbridled strength – and always delivered with a righteous hand. Together, Hawke and Merrill were truly a force to be reckoned with.

They wavered slightly now, thrown off kilter by the aggression with which the templars attacked them. The others did their best to distract the bitter warriors – Varric rained down arrows and Fenris skewered the templars as a vicious blur of lyrium, while Isabela and Aveline attempted to cut them down before they could ever reach the two mages. But in spite of their efforts, a few from the overwhelming ranks of the templars broke through their barrier, charging towards Hawke and Merrill with every intention of killing. There were abominations to be dealt with, as well, but the templars viewed the mages as much the same, grouping them in with the likes of demons.

Isabela fended off all of the opponents in her immediate vicinity, keeping close watch on Aya and Merrill. _Of course, _she thought bitterly, _the two bloody people I care the most about are the ones whose heads the templars want on pikes. Marvelous. _Were they facing bandits or thugs, the pirate was certain they could've taken down twice as many enemies without so much more than a few scratches; however, the templars were well-trained. In Isabela's opinion, they weren't quite as adept in combat as Aveline's city guards, yet they were worthy adversaries, nonetheless. And when they were out for blood, they were particularly deadly.

Feeling just a tad winded, the rogue groaned as another wave of templars came clambering down the stone stairway, almost immediately after they'd dispatched the first pack. She spared a glance in Hawke's direction, just in time to see her issue a severely frustrated snarl as the warriors descended. This time, there were more of them… considerably more.

"Shit… they really… don't want us to get down to the Gallows, do they," she inquired exasperatedly, inching her back against Aveline's and poising her daggers for attack. The two women took guard against one aperture while Varric and Fenris safeguarded the other. Two combatants at either stairwell – it wasn't much, but it _was_ something. With their combined skill, both teams could take out several templars while Merrill and Hawke fought from a moderately safe distance. If a few were to break through, Isabela was confident the mages could handle themselves. However, it was her job to make sure no more than a few were allowed an advantage.

"_Meredith_ doesn't want us… in the Gallows," Aveline growled, clashing her blade against a templar's, while hurling forward to bash his midsection with her shield. The pirate interspersed the many concise, lethal strokes of her daggers between different opponents, trying to occupy as many as she could at one time. Aveline wasn't much in the way of a multi-tasker – that wasn't the kind of combat she was versed in – but she was a tremendous defender. She could easily hold off two templars while Isabela hacked away from behind with grace. Though she couldn't hazard a glance in their direction, she assumed Fenris and Varric were handling themselves just as well.

When four or five templars broke through their small yet powerful blockade to charge towards Aya and Merrill, it was no fault of their own. There were just… too many adversaries, and not enough allies – plain and simple. Hawke responded immediately by igniting a small firestorm around the advancing templars. Merrill backed her up with a shock of chain lightning that hit every templar in turn, briefly stunning them. Both attacks were powerful, and under normal circumstances, could've taken out all of their opponents in one quick burst; but Isabela realized that their strength had been dulled. Without added lyrium, or a short bit of respite, Aya and Merrill's power would only continue to lessen with each attack.

The persistent templars, seared and blistered, charged forward with a collectively guttural cry. Feinting past one warrior and quickly slicing his throat, Isabela attempted to make a break from her current preoccupation, in an attempt to aid the mages directly; however, another templar stepped in from behind, catching her unawares. Had it not been for Aveline's rapid intercession, thrusting her sword into the flank of the templar's armor, Isabela would have been, at the very least, badly injured.

"Damnit…"

"Hold your position, Isabela! Trust Hawke and Merrill – your place is right here." Begrudgingly, Isabela complied, though not without casting several short, anxious glances towards the mages. _Focus, _she told herself,_ you won't be much good if you're distracted. Aveline is right, you just have to trust they can take care of themselves. _Even as she told herself this, she couldn't help but notice the growing number of templars seeping through their human barrier towards the other two women. She tried not to linger on this fact, but that damnable sense of worry and concern that _Aya_ had planted in her _(Why did that trait have to rub off on me?) _was getting the best of her.

She could at least hear the continued resonance of magic, echoing off the concrete and brick with a resounding hum. Regardless though, she needed to _see_ that they were okay. After impaling the kidneys of one templar with her daggers, she turned quickly on her heel, just in time to see one of the warriors raise his blade behind Hawke's back. The apostate was distracted, facing in the opposite direction and preparing to cast a spell that left her momentarily vulnerable. Isabela's heart instantly leapt into her throat.

"Hawke!" She cried out to no avail, for by the time the blonde-haired mage was jolted from her spell-casting, the templar was already swinging his gleaming sword. However, at the last, most impossibly close moment, another templar intercepted the blow with the flat of his own sword, giving Aya just enough time to side-step out from their crosshairs.

The second templar, the one that had _saved_ Hawke, was by far the more skilled of the two warriors. With just a few parries and swift flourishes of his great-sword, he had overwhelmed his comrade, hammering down with his blade and forcing the man to his knees. His movements were shaded with an unknown fury that briefly baffled Isabela, until the realization of _who_ he was dawned on her. _Carver?_ His face was obscured by a bulky helmet, and his body ambiguously armored with the templars' plate, yet he radiated a sense of utter protectiveness towards the elder Hawke that betrayed his identity.

Lacking the reprieve to contemplate Carver's timely intervention, the pirate turned her attention to the mob of templars still swarming them. Slowly but surely, their numbers were dwindling, and with Carver now aiding them, at least for this one fight, her confidence was bolstered. She may not be able to protect Aya right now – not totally – but she felt a great deal of relief knowing Carver would shoulder this duty, as only an over-bearing brother could. With that, her rapid and precise step was infused with renewed assurance, making every swipe from her blades cut right to the quick.

The numbers were against them, but when it came down to technical skill, Isabela, Aya, and their companions were simply the more practiced combatants. They were a cohesive unit, working together almost flawlessly; whereas the templars had grown sloppy in their gratuitous rage. For this reason, the remainder of the opposing warriors were dispatched within the next ten minutes. The fight did not come without its cuts and bruises, some deep and bloody, but it was above all else a victory – just what they needed to buoy their morale.

"Maker," Aya groaned, attempting to rub away a particularly fierce ache in her neck. Isabela joined the apostate at her side almost immediately, sheathing her crimson stained daggers and cupping the woman's chin in her hand, inspecting for injury. Hawke had been afflicted with no more than a few minor cuts – satisfied, the pirate shook her head and smiled.

"You know, if you keep this up, I might start thinking you actually _enjoy _near-death experiences," the rogue quipped.

"She alwayshas," Carver said with a grin, setting his helmet on the ground and running a hand over his sweat-soaked brow. His raven hair was longer now, pulled back in a short ponytail, and growing evenly over his shapely chin and jaw in a display of masculinity. He was no longer a boy – his face was chiseled, rugged; his eyes as blue as ever, and tempered with the depth of a skilled and educated _man_. To say Isabela was surprised would be an understatement; she still remembered him as the sniveling teen he'd been when she'd first met him. And who knew, perhaps he still was sniveling and petulant, perhaps his personality hadn't changed at all; but his appearance had matured unbelievably, a fact that was not lost on Aya.

"Yeah, I guess so," the apostate muttered, distracted by her own weary grin, eyes fixated on her brother.

"I'll never know who you inherited that inability to stay out of trouble from."

"You weren't much better, Carver. You just didn't have to worry about being hauled off to the circle tower. Impregnating farm girls, however..." He gave his big sister a cheeky grin, the visage of a younger, more pompous man splitting over his face as he puffed out his chest just slightly. _Still the same Carver… _ Isabela thought, rolling her eyes. He was certainly _pretty_, as were all of the Hawkes, but she and him had never gotten along well. There was a time when he'd probably wanted to bed her, but she couldn't even tolerate him enough for _that_ (of course, it didn't help that she was so much more entranced by his sister's assets).

"At least I could manage to weasel my way out of that. But _you…_ you need to be more careful," he chided. The apostate smiled tiredly as she locked eyes with the younger Hawke. A moment of verbose silence passed between them – things said that Isabela could not imagine – and was concluded when Aya stepped forward to embrace her brother tightly. She, of average height, was able to rest her head just below his shoulder, but no further. He'd grown at least another four inches since he'd joined the templars, all those years ago, and now loomed over his big sister protectively.

"Guess it would sound foolish of me to refer to you as my 'baby' brother now, wouldn't it," she chuckled lightly, her voice laden with emotion.

"In your defense, I was a pretty big baby," he mumbled in a distractedly mirthful reply, his chin resting on top of Hawke's head. Isabela had known Carver for over a year before he left his family, directly following what he considered the great betrayal of the Deep Roads. The pirate had been there – she'd seen the look of furious disappointment in his eyes; but she'd also seen and _heard_ Leandra's near tearful relief. In her opinion, Hawke had done the right thing, trying to protect her brother, though he'd ardently disagreed.

Carver was always far too judgmental towards Hawke though – envious of her abilities, resentful towards her apostate status, and quick to blindly mistake her protectiveness for spiteful constraint. In all the time Isabela had traveled with them, fought alongside them, or even simply drank with them at the Hanged Man, she'd never seen them hug. In fact, they'd hardly ever shown any indication of their relation outside of their kindred Hawke stubbornness, good looks, and constant bickering. To watch them now, openly embracing with such unforeseen fierceness, truly surprised her.

"'Pretty big' is something of an understatement. I'm surprised poor Bethy wasn't smothered in the womb." Laughing heartily, Carver flicked Aya in the ear.

"Still, I may have been a girthy child. Like a tree-trunk. But that was nothing compared to your overall _ear-span._"

"Hey!" She pulled away, feigning offense (though Isabela suspected the barb had hit closer to her insecurities than he realized), and swatted him playfully on the chest. They broke into another light fit of laughter, gazes fixed comfortably on each other until the rich, dulcet tones died away, and they were left with the overwhelming reality of their circumstances. "What are we doing, Carver? We could never seem to relax around each other before, yet here we are, in the midst of an utter catastrophe, laughing and teasing each other like we were back in Lothering." Sweeping over her surroundings, Aya sported a frown that clearly displayed how very _far_ from Lothering she knew they were. Carver kept his eyes on his sister however, his lips finally pursed.

"I don't know, sister… one of our natural Hawke instincts, I suppose."

"You mean: making light of an impossible situation with an awful sense of humor?"

"Precisely." His brow knitted together suddenly and he cleared his throat. Aya paused, urging him to voice whatever troubling thought had crossed his mind. "Despite all the joking, I _was_ rather frightened to hear it was _my_ sister everybody was trying to impale."

"You're surprised?" She smiled weakly, in spite of the hollow pit that her stomach had become. "I'm quite popular, you know."

"Too popular," he sighed. "I was confident you could take care of yourself, you know. I wasn't _trying_ to find you. And just by chance, I happen to stumble upon you, at the center of a templar horde. Not a moment too soon, either. Had it not been for me, you would be dead, Aya." Isabela could see him, prepping a scowl for the sarcastic reply that was almost certain to be issued from Hawke in response. Yet she merely stared at him soberly and nodded.

"You're right." She tried to keep her voice casual, but it came out just a little bit too stiff. Carver was clearly surprised by her admission – it was an unnatural deviation from their typical rapport, as sardonic and petty as it may be. But this… it was earnest and adult, perhaps too much so for the twenty five year old templar. He may act like he hated their unconditionally barbed relationship; however, Isabela suspected it was much easier for him to swallow than something honest and emotional – something like this. He'd prefer they continue to act like a couple of snide, competitive teens for the rest of their lives. "I _was_ being careful. It's just… my mortality is in popular demand right now, like I said," she gave a small, hollow chuckle. "I'll be extra careful from here on out. For now though… I'm just happy to have my brother here to save my ass." She grinned, and the pirate recognized hints of genuine happiness mired in her frustrations.

Carver, on the other hand, frowned, turning his steely blue gaze to the bloody cobblestones under his feet. Something much like _guilt_ stabbed briefly through his features before Aya pressed her filthy palm delicately against his cheek. Isabela noted that for one short moment, the mage looked and sounded remarkably like Leandra as she gently demanded, in a quiet, lulling voice, "Tell me why you can't seem to share in my joy, brother. What's the matter?" He gave his head a subtle shake and sighed, a sad smile ghosting over his lips.

"Ahh, and this is the part where you pry my shame from me as only a Hawke woman can, hmm?" Her laughter was natural this time, backed by a firm hand, still cupping his cheek comfortingly. When he finally met her gaze, there was love in his eyes. "Sister… I'm a templar," he said quietly.

"Is that so? Here I thought you've merely been dressing as one for the past six years to _intimidate_ me." The joke was light, meant only to ease the tension between them.

"I'm sworn to the order. And these men and women I've just helped you kill… they're my brothers and sisters." Aya smiled at that, pride burning slightly within the depths of her green eyes.

"I'm sorry for that, Carver. Though it is nice to know that out of _all_ your brothers and sisters, I'm apparently your favorite." He too chuckled at this comment, both disregarding the blatant truth of it.

"I don't want you getting the wrong idea – I've just known you the longest, that's all. Plus I kept imagining how badly mother would've scolded me if I'd ever let someone flay you." They both took pause as the thought of Leandra entered into their consciousness.

"No matter your reasons," she said, shaking off traces of solemnity. "You _did_ save me, and you went against the order to do so. That's admirable. _Thank you,_ Carver." Staggered by the complete truth of Aya's words, the young man fumbled for a suitable reply. In the process, a deep blush rose to his fair cheeks, in a manner very similar to that his sister displayed on a near daily basis. It must've been a definitive Hawke trait, or so Isabela thought. The way Aya had described Bethany – sweet, innocent, shy – she could imagine that she was entirely the blushing type, too.

Finally, he muttered with a modicum of embarrassment, "Don't, uhm, mention it." She chuckled once again, amused that she had caught her brother off guard.

"No, I should. Heroism fits you." She paused for a moment, willing her voice not to crack. Maybe she was tired – in fact, she was – too tired; but she could feel her chest tighten slightly as the emotions welled within. She and Carver had always fought, like cats and dogs, or worse, tigers and mabari. She had wasted a great deal of their relationship protecting him, or disciplining him, or simply attempting to combat his resentment towards her. She often came off callous when interacting with him, as she had when she'd denied his accompaniment during the Deep Roads expedition. But in truth, she was only cold to him as a means of coping with his apparent dislike for her, because that… that had always hurt her, deeply at times. And now, as they stood together as adults, mutually respecting each other's strength and valor, she saw that she had gone about him all wrong. Had she been gentler with him from the get-go, more mature and accepting, they could've been closer. Maybe not as close as she and Bethany had been, but close, nonetheless.

The regret was something she could not dwell on, however. "It seems you've truly found your niche with the templars." They smiled proudly at each other for a long moment before Aya asked, "Do you believe what Meredith believes, Carver?" He paused, clearly troubled by this question. It seemed he'd spent a lot of time contemplating just that.

"I believe in what the templars stand for. Not Meredith. Not anybody else really. Just _me,_ and the doctrine as I perceive it. Magic…" he sighed – this was clearly most difficult for him to discuss with his apostate sister. "I've heard stories of the horrors mages can inflict. I've seen some of that havoc with my own eyes. Maker, what happened with mother, it was… unnatural, Aya!" He drew in a shaky breath, calming himself before he became overwhelmed by his frustrations. "But I also grew up with three apostates – three of the most caring and compassionate people I've ever known. So I also realize that with such… incredible gifts, a vast measure of good can be done, as well." To hear him say _this_ truly made Hawke proud. He'd spent most of his life claiming to have despised magic, after all. "I admit, I joined the templars to spite you, sister. And for that, I am ashamed. But after fighting alongside them for so many years, I have come to hold firm beliefs regarding their duties."

He placed a hand on Hawke's shoulder before he continued, meeting her emerald gaze directly. "Under Meredith's rule, we pushed the mages far beyond the bounds of their self-restraint. Yet I continue to stand with them, because I believe we are capable of cleansing your kind of unnecessary evils. We can end those who misuse your abilities, who harm innocent people and treat them as a means to an end. In doing see, we protect virtuous mages from their influence and misdeeds. I don't want to lock you away, Aya, I never have. I just want… I want to help encourage the good you are capable of. I believe in you_._"

"Do you… you really mean that?" The inquiry was choked from her quietly, hints of trepidation and silent hope lacing her voice childishly. For a moment, amongst the chaos and gore that surrounded them, they were both children – naïve. Aya, reluctantly begging answers that seemed too good to be true; and Carver, cheeks flushed crimson as he kicked the toe of his boot into the street, embarrassed to admit a truth he'd spent his entire life petulantly denying. It became suddenly apparent to all who watched just how much these two siblings actually loved each other, and just how badly they'd always tried to hide it.

"Well… yeah. I mean, no one else has to know that though." With a laugh, she nodded, wrapping him up in another tight hug. Embarrassment still coursed through him, but he returned her affection without shame. "Duty or not, I didn't want to be a part of _this_."

"Neither did I… and I don't even have a damn title. I'm just some Ferelden apostate who ended up in all the wrong places at all the right times. Yet somehow, I still feel like I belong here, like this is my fight."

"It is. You're the hero of the family, Aya. I always liked to pretend that I was, but I could never do what you've done." His voice was somber, though not bitter, as one might expect. "I mean, look at me: in the middle of a… a bloody war, toeing the line between both sides. I don't even know who I should be fighting for. I don't know… well, I'm not sure what's right, sister."

"I'm hardly the one to answer. I'm fighting on behalf of a cause incited by an abomination. It feels right, but it doesn't appear so. And you…" She stepped back, grasping Carver by the shoulders and looking at him sternly. "I know what you're thinking. You feel you have an obligation to fight by my side, regardless of what you believe in, just because the same blood flows through our veins. But _that_ is most definitely not the right thing to do. Likewise, you should not fight for the templars just because you pledged a few vows. Your duty, above all else, is to fight on behalf of the cause that you believe in. Forget about templars; forget about your apostate family. Deep down, without bias, there is an opinion that speaks to you. And that is what you will fight for.

"I admit, I would love to have you join us. But I would be much happier knowing that you're acting of your own volition, defending what you believe in. You're… your own man now, Carver, and for that, I'm proud. You've no need to worry about my shadow, or treading paths that I have blazed. Just do what needs to be done for _you._"

"I…" He was stunned, obviously, to have his own choices, to know that no matter what he decided or what he chose to believe in, Aya would not hold it against him. "I don't think I trust Orsino," he resolutely concluded.

"Understandable," Aya added with a nervous laugh.

"Meredith is rash, but she has strong convictions. And I don't think she's capable of as much destruction." He sighed loudly, shaking his head, his brow furrowing in frustration. "No one can be trusted, Aya." Suddenly, he lifted his gaze to meet hers, a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. "Except for you. And our… friends." He looked around at all of them, not entirely sure if they had actually forgiven him for betraying his sister all those years ago. Aveline was firm with him, and he aggravated her endlessly, but she would accept him; Varric had always enjoyed drinking with him, and would be pleased to have him back; Merrill certainly wasn't the type to hold a grudge, and Carver had always been _especially_ kind to her; he and Fenris had never been on friendly terms, yet the elf was loyal to his sister, and would be civil; and Isabela… she'd always ribbed him, always fought with him, but he was Aya's little brother, and she would do anything for her.

"So, are you saying…"

"This… it's not about blood, Aya. I trust that _you_ will do the right thing. And I want to help you." The apostate tried to restrain herself, but her face split into a broad, luminous grin, nonetheless. She looked more lively and confident than she had since their entire ordeal began, or so Isabela thought. However, in fear of embarrassing her brother, she did hold herself back from wrapping him tightly in another bear hug.

"Fantastic," she exclaimed, mischief shining in her features. "Then what do you say we go save a city?"

* * *

They were horribly cramped as they sailed to the Gallows, attempting to squeeze an excess of grimy, blood-stained bodies into a boat with too small of a capacity. This, indeed, was simply a _boat_, as opposed to a _ship_. Isabela could remember trying to explain the difference to several of her companions in the past. She had gone through great pains in particular to get Hawke to stop referring to the _Siren's Call II_ as a "boat". If she had any intentions of leaving Kirkwall with the pirate and living on the vessel (and she most certainly _did_), Isabela demanded she acknowledge it for what it was – a ship – grand, ornate, with an air of seafaring regality that made the rogue beam with pride and excitement. The idea that such a vessel belonged properly to her thrilled Isabela to no end. All thanks to Hawke, of course. And oh, they had done such lecherous things below deck in preparation of their coming journey together.

The thought curled a wicked smirk around her lips as she sat aboard the small boat that was their transport to the Gallows. In comparison to the _Siren's Call,_ it was absolutely puny. Regardless, it allowed her to indulge in the gentle sway of the water as she relaxed against the mast, watching Hawke from a distance. She stood at the bow, steady on her feet as she trained her eyes on their destination. Isabela knew the woman's mind was plagued with thoughts of coming battle, bloodshed; and perhaps she could've allowed these treacherous thoughts to consume her mind, as well. But the pirate was a master of distraction, in all forms. She had proven this fact to Aya on many, many occasions; however, it also served to distract her own mind when necessary.

She didn't want to dwell on their current dilemma, and so found other things to occupy her mind. The harsh bite of salt whipping against her cheeks in a gentle gale; the rain that pelted her skin lightly, breaking through the dwindling evening sun in a refreshing shower; Hawke's inherent sea-legs, and how they would come in handy when she was learning the ropes aboard Isabela's ship. She was a quick learner as it was – intelligent and good at taking direction (something that had proved _very_ beneficial in more intimate aspects of their relationship) – and would become a fantastic sailor in no time. She was still a bit too morally upstanding to fall completely into the role of pirate, but under Isabela's influence, she would eventually acquire an appropriate amount of depravity.

As they neared the Gallows, Aya turned back to face them, her face serious, but not yet downtrodden. Her jaw had loosened under her skin, allowing the soft curves of her cheeks to show themselves prominently on her pale face. Her eyes were bright – smoldering even – with determination and passion borne entirely of her dedication to their cause. She did not smile, but her full lips had relaxed into their natural disposition, corners perpetually quirked in subtle optimism, implying a kind smile that was never too far from her features.

"Everyone ready?" All of the Champion's companions nodded, and Isabela grinned at her. It was the kind of grin she only adorned in Aya's presence, and _for_ Aya. Noticing this, Hawke returned the gesture with her own delicate smile. It wasn't nearly as impish as Isabela's – it was ingenuous – it made the pirate feel unconditionally safe. "Good. I wish I could tell you what will be waiting for us, but I really have no idea," she shrugged.

"Meredith will be there, for sure," Carver added, a hint of nerves coloring his voice.

"Of course. Orsino, too, unless they've managed to kill each other… no matter though, we'll take care of it. Don't worry about the Knight-Commander, brother." He nodded, putting on a brave face, as did the rest of Hawke's companions. Their worry was natural, expected even; but after years of fighting, and several instances of near-certain death, they'd learned that the best way to contest one's own anxiety is to play brave, to pretend.

And that's just what they did. When they hit the loading ramp at the Gallows' makeshift docks, clattering against the dirt with dull, thudding feet, not one of them appeared frightened of what they were about to face. Granted, none of them had any idea what would be up head – what may lie just beyond the large, granite stairwell they were to ascend, cloaked beneath an ambiguous pall of shadows. For most, the uncertainty would've unsettled them further; but they'd lived in the City of Chains for a long time. They knew nothing in Kirkwall was ever certain, leastwise in more feared regions such as Darktown or the Gallows, and over the years, the constant insecurity had become something of an old friend.

When they crossed through the large aperture, the first thing that hit them was the aroma – an acrid blend of blood and flames. Bodies littered the concrete, embellished with both the insignia and gleaming plate of the templars, as well as the robes common among circle mages. It was a mixture of men and women, humans and elves, all of indiscriminate sizes, colors, and ages. It was vaguely ironic to Aya, who realized that both sides had died fighting each other, for a different cause. Yet now, as they lay cold and motionless, they had all joined the same ranks – the ranks of the dead.

As Hawke and her companions strode purposefully over the cobblestones, tense amongst the conflict swarming all around them, a bright light shot out ahead. It wasn't a flame of any sort, but a controlled beam, accompanied by a sharp snap-hiss definitive of magic. The next moment, a shining metal blur was cast through the air, completely indiscernible until it hit the ground in the exact spot where Aya was about to plant her foot. The templar collided with the concrete with a sickening crunch – the neck and spine probably cracked, judging from the position in which the unfortunate warrior had landed. The sound alone caused Hawke to wince as she strained her vision over another set of stone steps, just up ahead.

"First Enchanter," she called out, spotting Orsino on the staircase with a few other circle mages. He stopped mid-step, ready to run in the opposite direction before he halted and turned with wide eyes.

"Champion! You've survived – thank the Maker! We must-" The First Enchanter was cut off by a shrill, livid voice, marching through the entryway behind Hawke and her companions.

"And here you are!" She acknowledged the Champion with a scowl, beckoning her templar underlings to follow her like a pack of loyal mabari. Her gait was marked with an air of over-confidence that Aya thought seemed somewhat uncharacteristic. Meredith was commanding and assured in her convictions, but she was not pompous. Her current bearing exuded something far beyond conviction, however… she seemed possessed.

"Let us speak, Meredith," Orsino demanded, firm yet calm. "Before this battle destroys the city you claim to protect." The Knight-Commander merely scoffed, sauntering forward with a small, arrogant smile carved into her features.

"I will entertain a surrender, and _nothing _more." As she passed Hawke, the apostate was gripped with a quick shudder, noting the pulsing, red glow emanating from Meredith's massive blade. This shudder was not of fear, however. It was physically involuntary, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to rise. Her eyes narrowed in a quizzical expression, fixed upon the Knight-Commander's extraordinary weapon as she stood before Orsino. Preparing for a likely confrontation, the elf motioned for his accompanying mages to assemble beside him.

Mildly angered by this further show of defiance, Meredith coolly insisted, "Speak, if you have something to say."

"Revoke the right of annulment, Meredith. Before this goes too far." _As if it hasn't already…_ Isabela thought wryly to herself, quickly tiring of Orsino's and Meredith's belligerence. In a way, she had to wonder if they had predetermined their own conflict – their own fate. Whenever they met, it was always under the thinnest pretense of civility, neither putting forth much effort to hide a scowl or bite back a cutting remark. Perhaps, inadvertently, they had presupposed this battle a long time ago. "Imprison us if you must, search the tower – I will even help you. But _do not_ kill us all for an act we did not commit!" His offer was amenable, but they all knew it was hopeless.

"The Grand Cleric is dead, killed by a mage," Meredith replied simply, as if that, in itself, was an answer. More like a death sentence. "The people will demand retribution, and I will give it to them. Your offer is commendable, Orsino, but it comes too late."

"No," Aya stepped between the two, shaking her head stanchly. "Many have already died, yes, but that does not mean that we _all_ must die. As long as the two of you still stand, this can be stopped. As long as you _allow_ it," she added carefully. "If not, the city will be torn apart." Neither of them spared more than a glance in Hawke's direction as she spoke. Clearly, their minds were already made up.

"You heard her," Orsino said bitterly, "she's wanted this all along." Meredith merely shrugged, ignoring the First Enchanter's comment and turning to face Aya.

"You are naïve, Champion, though I would expect no less from you. And for that, you will share the circle's fate." Carver's lip curled into a snarl as he observed the way in which Meredith addressed his sister – callously condemning her. She was his superior, of course, but if they were to come to blows, and he felt certain they would, he wouldn't mind seeing Aya put her down.

"So… what will it be, Meredith? Do we fight here?" Orsino spoke quietly, like a man broken. Hawke eyed him in distaste – he had every right to be saddened, but not defeated. He was supposed to be a leader, and his weakness would not bode well for the rest of the circle mages.

"Go. Prepare your people," was Meredith's steadfast reply. She was composed, yet her blue eyes shimmered wildly, and an intimation of blood-lust echoed far off in her voice. "The rest of the order is already crossing the harbor."

"This isn't over," Orsino said, sudden fury hard within his voice. It was unbridled, but at least better than dejection, or so Hawke thought. With one last scathing look, he turned sharply on his heel and trotted up the stone steps, the circle mages following grimly in his wake. Hawke gazed in Meredith's direction, curious to see if the Knight-Commander would say anything more to her. However, Aya wasn't even granted a fleeting glance.

Shaking her head, she looked to her companions and said, "Come on. Let's go." They could only hope that they would cross back this way again.

* * *

They'd caught up to Orsino on their way into the Gallows, Hawke jogging up beside the First Enchanter. Isabela, of course, was close behind their de facto leader, ears perked to pick up on the hushed conversation between the two mages.

"How much time did it take you to cross the harbor, Champion," he asked quietly, his tone calculating.

"An hour, maybe a little more."

"And they were already crossing as we were speaking with Meredith…" He cursed silently, the gears turning in his head while he attempted to work out how much time they actually had before the templars' arrival. "It won't be long then. I'd say half an hour, to be safe." Aya nodded stoically – she was already aware of this. "We'll maintain a blockade of mages out front, to safeguard the entrance. I'll have them alert us when the templars arrive, at which point, you and I will hand out orders to our respective parties." His voice was particularly grim as he spoke, until dipping into a near indiscernible quiet that the rogue strained to hear. "In the meantime, you should speak to your companions. If there is anything left unsaid-" Hawke silenced him with a diplomatic hand.

"I understand, First Enchanter. You need not say anything more."

"Right… I'll let you know when it is time." Hawke gave him a final nod, parting from Orsino as they stood silently in the main hall of the Gallows. A few torches were lit dimly along the walls, casting a faint, flickering light over the concrete. The structure of the building was entirely gray, conveying a sense bleakness that did not bode well for the already nerve-wracked mages that stood with them. They were trained and capable fighters, of course, with the ability to wield their magic just as well as Aya or Merrill. Regardless, they weren't used to this kind of conflict – being locked away in that dingy, Maker forsaken tower had softened them to such war.

They would hold though, or so Isabela thought. They were naturally more powerful than the templars, even if they weren't as prepared. Together, they had a fighting chance. And with Hawke on their side… well, the pirate liked to think that with Hawke, all things were possible. Even winning a near-impossible battle.

Isabela sat down on the cold floor beside Merrill, stretching out her long legs while she waited for Aya to join her. Orsino had been right – at this point there was no turning back, and Hawke couldn't afford to leave anything unsaid between her and her friends. Or her lover, for that matter, but there wasn't much that _needed_ to be said between them. Their love – deep, tender, fervent – had been proclaimed by both women with an ardency appropriately fitting of their turbulent lives. Their loyalty and devotion was made obvious by the fact that even now, at this mortally dangerous juncture, they had stuck together.

So what was this abnormal weight that contracted within Isabela's chest, tying her stomach into knots? If all had been said before, why did she feel like it needed to be said again? She wanted Hawke to sit down beside her and thread her alabaster fingers through her own. She wanted the apostate to smile at her in a way that was meant only for her pirate, eyes burning with a soft entreaty that would part her full lips and beg for passion. She wanted to tell Aya that she loved her – truly, desperately – and she wanted to say it a thousand times over. Why? That wasn't her. Hawke was the bleeding romantic, _not_ Isabela.

But this need wasn't about romance: it was about fear. Because Isabela was aware of the very real possibility that one, or both of them, could die here today. And in that case, it seemed even a thousand times would be an inaccurate measure of what she felt for her lover. She wasn't good at saying these things anyway; it was much easier for the pirate to _show_ Hawke how she felt. And she was definitely tempted by the idea, despite their surroundings – it would be a great morale boost for those watching, at the very least.

She was fooling herself though, trying to placate her meandering anxieties with thoughts of sex. Normally, the distraction would be welcome; however, she was smart enough to know that the present dilemma was worthy of her full attention. Trying to shake off the worry, and ease the tension in her stomach, she turned to see Merrill, hugging her knees to her chest as she picked at a crack in the floor. The little elf was nervous – quite so, Isabela would venture to say – but she was determined, as well. This may not be the cause of her people, of the Dalish, but it was a cause of mages, nonetheless. It was a cause that affected those she cared for, as well as herself. That was enough to gain Merrill's unflinching devotion.

Isabela smiled – she certainly had to admire her dear friend. Most people simply took her for some naïve fool of an elf. Her fixation on brightly colored flowers and complete inability to resist climbing things did nothing to negate these illusions. Nevertheless, that is what the pirate knew them to be: illusions, all part of a well-cultivated façade. Because Merrill wanted to be unassuming – she didn't want people to know how powerful she truly was. She may be a blood mage, but she was no abomination, not like most people would think. The elf was inconspicuous as a means of self-preservation, developed over years of being harassed by others in her clan for her "foul" work and misdeeds.

Isabela saw Merrill for what she was though: compassionate, clever, and more powerful than anyone would imagine. Aside from Hawke, that sweet elf was the truest friend the pirate had ever had.

"Are you nervous, Bela," Merrill asked, shaking Isabela from her musing.

"What's that, Kitten?" The elf turned to her, her wide, mossy eyes soft and full of curiosity.

"Are you nervous?" Isabela merely shrugged. Normally, she would make some overtly confident or otherwise sarcastic remark. But the moment had not warranted such falsehood, and she knew Merrill would see through it anyhow.

"Yes." The short, honest reply seemed to take the elf off guard, her eyes widening slightly before she smiled.

"I'm surprised… I bet you would be less nervous if Hawke were here beside you." The astuteness of this observation elicited a smile from Isabela. Merrill knew her too well.

"She has a lot of people to talk to first."

"She's saving you for last, isn't she?" Isabela nodded, sighing.

"Of course. She _has_ to save the best for last, doesn't she?" Merrill giggled.

"I suppose so, yes." After a pause, the elf dropped her head once more to resume picking at the floor tiles. Anxiety slowly crept back into her face, blanching her features in the pale torchlight. Noticing this, Isabela bumped her shoulder playfully against Merrill's, linking their arms.

"I'm glad you're here too, Kitten." The elf blushed, smiling lightly. Isabela wasn't sure what it was – a combination of their overwhelming anxiety, as well as the abounding disaster, perhaps – but she found herself thinking about just how much she would miss Merrill when this was all over. Over the years, the kind little blood mage had become something of… a sister to her. Someone she loved innately, in an entirely platonic and very protective manner. In truth, she'd thought of kidnapping the woman and taking her away with them when she and Hawke left Kirkwall. She wasn't sure if an elf would fare well on the open water, but right now, she felt as though she needed to ask. "You know Hawke and I are leaving when this is all over, don't you, Merrill?" The elf's ears perked up just a little bit – Isabela only referred to her by her proper name when she wanted to discuss something particularly serious (it wasn't very often).

"Yes, of course. You've been talking about it often. I know you're very excited, Isabela. Hawke, too, I'm sure."

"What will you do after we're gone," the pirate inquired softly, acknowledging the way in which Merrill's ears reddened. This always happened when she was particularly upset, or just embarrassed about something.

"Oh… I don't know. I don't have a clan to return to anymore. I suppose there's other Dalish around, but… it wouldn't be the same. I was thinking perhaps I would travel to Sundermount, and make my own camp outside of the city. It might be lonely, but I would be away from the Alienage, at least. That would be nice." It wouldn't be very nice, and Isabela knew that. If it were, Merrill would sound far more enthusiastic about it.

"Well, I had a thought, as to what you might do…" Isabela smiled brightly, piquing Merrill's attention as she turned to face her friend.

"Really? What?"

"It's just an idea I had recently. I'm not sure if it would be preferable to living alone in the forest – I do know how you love to climb trees, Kitten, especially dangerously tall ones. But I was thinking, maybe… you could join my crew aboard the _Siren's Call_? With all the gruff sailor types I've managed to employ so far, I am in dire need of someone insufferably cute to balance them out. You, of course, fit the bill perfectly." Merrill was obviously taken aback by the offer – speechless, as her mouth rounded and gaped wordlessly. Her eyes were big and bright, reminding Isabela of just one of the reasons she'd chosen the elf's longstanding nickname. Then, something in those earthy green hues sparked, and Merrill grinned widely.

"You mean it?"

"Absolutely. I'd say Hawke could fill the position, but she's already been appointed as my first mate. And the only other person I could think of for the job was you." Merrill immediately lunged on Isabela, wrapping her up in a hug so tight that the pirate couldn't help but laugh. She had been skeptical about how the elf might react; but she now knew she had done the right thing in asking.

"Yes, of course! Ma serannas, Lethallan!"

"Wonderful," Isabela said, still chuckling as she returned Merrill's excited embrace. They held onto each other a moment longer, until they were interrupted by the sound of Hawke, plopping down on the floor in front of them in her prized Champion's armor. Isabela turned with a smile on her face, nerves buzzing slightly in her belly when she met Aya's gaze – cool, composed, yet tempered with worry and exhaustion. Nonetheless, Hawke gave her a pleasant smile.

"What did I miss?"

"Oh, Hawke!" Merrill bounced onto her knees enthusiastically, her hands moving in large, animated gestures as she spoke. "Isabela asked me to join the two of you aboard her ship!" Aya grinned crookedly, a dimple carving itself into her cheek as she gave Isabela a sidelong glance, her eyes glinting knowingly. She had suspected this would happen all along.

"That's great, Merrill, really. It'll be nice to have another friend on board." She squeezed the elf's arm gently as the woman nodded. "I'll make sure to get us there in one piece, too." Merrill's expression sobered remarkably fast. She nodded once again, the gesture now more determined and dedicated that it was bubbly and excited.

"I know you will, Hawke. You're probably the only one who can." The blonde apostate chuckled lightly, shaking her head.

"You give me too much credit…" Her eyes flickered for a moment, and she glanced once more in Isabela's direction. This time, the pirate's eyes were watching, waiting for them to connect. The moment they did, those niggling nerves that were coiled within her stomach jerked, and she felt goosebumps briefly rising over her arms.

Perhaps sensing this subtle change in demeanor, Aya turned back to Merrill and kindly asked, "Could Isabela and I have a moment alone together? I'd like to talk to her before… well, you know."

"Oh, right. Of course, Lethallan. Just let me know when it is time."

"Thank you, Merrill," Hawke nodded graciously, keeping her gaze fixed upon Isabela. As soon as the elf left them, Aya inched closer to her pirate, unconsciously reaching for her hands as though it were the most basic of instincts. It certainly felt as though it were. Sometimes, a smile shared between them, a soft squeeze of the hands or arms, or a graze of the lips, felt like the most congenital of actions. As Isabela liked to remind herself often, she was no romantic; nonetheless, romance came so naturally to her in the apostate's presence, it was completely baffling.

With a sigh, Isabela expelled the majority of tension from her body, relaxing into the feeling of Aya's fingers woven through her own. Hawke closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her forehead against her lover's. The goosebumps that had started to dissipate reformed on the pirate's arms as she felt the mage's warm breath exhaled against her skin, tickling every miniscule piece of flesh that it touched. All too aware of how close Hawke's subtly parted lips were to her own, she inclined her head to capture them in a short, tender kiss.

"I'm so glad you're here, Bela," the mage whispered against her lover's mouth, eyes closed and filled with visions of a life after Kirkwall. "I'm sure this isn't where you wanted to end up-" Nipping Hawke's lip, Isabela silenced her before she could finish voicing her doubt.

"I wanted to end up with you. I never really had the whole templars versus mages war in mind, but I know it's what needs to happen." Aya shook her head a little, still not entirely convinced.

"It doesn't seem right, that you should have to be here, risking your life."

"No, I don't _have_ to do anything, Hawke. None of us do. We're here to support you and your cause. It's the least we could do, after everything you've done for us."

"But-"

"I love you, but you need to shut up, alright?" She cupped the apostate's chin in her hand, forcing her to listen with blazing eyes. "I'm here because I want to be Hawke. Because I can think of no greater future than to be sailing across Thedas on _my_ ship with _my _mage. I knew getting there wasn't going to be easy, but I also knew I would stick to it, no matter what. So if you insist on fighting for some principle or other, I'm going to be right beside you." Suddenly, Isabela shook her head, her brow knitting together with a sense of indignant irony. "It figures, doesn't it? I _finally_ find someone I want to be with, and the templars decide to go crazy and kill everyone." Hawke knew the pirate was being caustic, making a joke she herself probably wasn't even enjoying, and in spite of that, she had to chuckle. She was hoping that if she remained lighthearted, she'd be able to quell the uncharacteristic worry shadowed in Isabela's features.

"C'mon, Bela. It'd be so _boring_ for us to simply… sail off into the sunset without a chantry getting blown up or something beforehand." Her humor was lost on the rogue though, as she pulled back from Aya and grabbed her face between her hands.

"Shit, Hawke. I've never been a part of something like this before. It's… scary."

"It is," Aya said quietly, removing one of those dusky hands from her cheek, and pressing it softly against her lips.

"Just tell me I'm not going to lose you." Isabela's amber eyes stared back at Hawke with a potent and plaintive mixture of fear and cold determination – a look of unabashed vulnerability that appeared foreign to the Rivaini's features. That alone was enough to make Aya forget about her own fears, if only for a few moments, so that she may comfort her lover.

"If you think a couple of angry templars are going to be enough to take me away from you, you're sadly mistaken." She leaned forward, grasping the back of Isabela's neck gently with one hand, and kissed her forehead. The pirate could feel heat blazing in the exact spot where Hawke's lips connected with her skin, an unspoken promise made apparent to her, even when it had been mired in subtle humor. Hawke would _never_ leave her, and she knew that. But that didn't mean that Hawke couldn't be taken away from her. The apostate wouldn't let that happen though – she wouldn't leave her love alone. "You're stuck with me, Isabela. For as long as you'll have me, and well beyond that. _I promise._"

With an earnest smile finally curling over her lips, Isabela replied, "I'm going to hold you to that, Hawke."

"Go ahead. I'm not going to let you down." Hawke leaned forward, enveloping Isabela's lips with a fierce passion. It almost felt like the kind of kiss you would share with someone before a great sacrifice. Desperate, hungry – attempting to glean every last detail of the other through their lips: the natural rhythm of their breathing; the taste of their saliva; the way their heart felt, encased beneath pulsing flesh, beating so wildly the other could feel it as poignantly as their own. It felt like a last kiss. _No. This won't be the last time. _Isabela pulled away suddenly, leaving the apostate confused and obviously dissatisfied.

"We shouldn't kiss like this, Hawke."

"What do you mean?" The pirate shook her head, frowning slightly while Aya appeared quizzical.

"There's too much finality in it. That's not right. This… it isn't the last time." Hawke furrowed her brow, understanding dawning on her.

"Then how should we be kissing?" After a brief pause, Isabela smiled impishly, inclining her head slowly, and engaging her Champion in a slow, sensual tangle of heated lips and massaging tongues. She prolonged the action until she knew Hawke was as thoroughly desirous and aroused as she was.

"Like that – like we have something to look forward to _after_ this is over. Because we _do._" She spoke directly into Hawke's ear, eliciting a shiver from the mage.

"Oh… incentive."

"Mhm," Isabela purred, threading her fingers through Aya's blonde tresses and burying her face in her neck. She could feel her pulse-point thrumming beneath that pale skin, and smiled. For a moment or two, they had truly forgotten where they were, and what they were about to do. They were surprised when the First Enchanter called out for Hawke, caution and anger plain in his voice.

"Champion… there's something you need to see."

* * *

**As always, I want to thank everyone for the reviews/alerts/favorites/etc. I truly think you guys are awesome, and I appreciate it tons. Please keep them coming : )**


	12. Chapter 12

**Here you go, after some delay: chapter 12! I will be wrapping this up in the next chapter, so I would like to take some time now to thank everyone who has been reading and reviewing up to this point. I appreciate it tons!**

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Orsino's words drew Isabela back into the present, renewing her hard forgotten awareness of their current circumstances with a belligerently palpitating heart. She had allowed herself to become lost in the intimacy she and Hawke had thoughtlessly ignited. This was both a mistake and an unflagging blessing, on both their parts. On one hand, it was foolish of them to devote their attention to anything but their current debacle; they should've been preparing – mentally, physically – yet they'd instead chosen to isolate themselves from the glaring precipice they stood upon. On the other hand, the brief solace they found in each other's embrace, in each other's smoldering promises, had reinvigorated their determination. For they had served to remind each other just how much they had to lose, and just how much would be gained from not only their mere survival, but their victory, as well. A new life awaited them on the open sea, a grand adventure that was theirs for the taking, as long as they were able.

The intimacy Orsino's intrusion had ruined now left its searing ache burning under the pirate's skin. She suddenly felt feverish – less from the anxiety than from the passion that had swelled within Aya's emerald eyes. That ardency was, in itself, an illness, and Isabela was gravely infected. It had nestled itself irrevocably beneath her flesh, and showed no signs of leaving. She was held captive by her own emotions, sick with the stringent love she held for her Champion, and if she was being completely honest, she no longer minded. The fever was something she cherished; the ache, she coveted with pillaging fingers.

Losing was no longer an option for either of them: losing their nerve, losing this fight, losing each other. Neither woman would allow that to happen. Isabela just wasn't entirely sure she was ready for the fighting to begin. However, as the First Enchanter strode towards them, hesitation clear in his rigid step, she had an inkling that something was amiss. His gait held fear and caution, without the utter urgency and adrenaline-wrought rapidity warranted by the initiation of battle.

Aya also noted this behavior, finding his words lacked the decisiveness they ought to possess. "Have the templars arrived," she asked, a measure of disbelief in her voice – it seemed fairly obvious they had _not_ arrived… yet.

"No," he succinctly replied, shaking his head. His eyes fixed themselves solely upon Hawke, while sparing Isabela a single sidelong glance.

"Then what is it?" He bowed his head slightly, a shroud of shadows falling over his face as they trembled faintly in the dull, flickering light. His voice lowered, meant only for Aya, but not quite avoiding Isabela's keen sense of hearing. Every other person in the room gazed upon the interaction, fearing the worst, fearing the time had come.

"There's been something of… an incident. I would deal with it myself, but I should not deny you your opinion on the matter. Please, follow." Orsino nodded in the direction of the adjoining hall and the broad, wooden doors that enclosed it. Stationed near the entryway, a young circle mage stood fidgeting. Isabela assumed her to be the bearer of whatever bad news had been brought to the elven enchanter.

"Isabela will come with me." Hawke looked to her lover with narrowed eyes, and the pirate nodded in affirmation. She half expected Orsino to object to her accompaniment; instead, he tersely agreed, eager to flee the collective gaze trained on his back.

"Fine. Please though, we do not have much time." Aya complied without hesitation, as was expected, and Isabela naturally followed. Orsino's ambiguity did not encourage a sense of hope as to what had happened or what might await them beyond those grand doors, nor did his obvious caution. However, the pirate knew time was of the essence, and inquiry seemed a bit unnecessary at this point.

As they neared the frightened messenger waiting for them by the door, Isabela was momentarily astounded by how young she appeared. At most she only could've been sixteen, though the Rivaini would have guessed a year or two less than that. No matter her age, she was too young to be fighting in this sort of war. Her body damn near writhed with a fear she was too green to suppress. Odds were, she was still too young, too sweetly naïve to fully grasp the atrocities for which she would be fighting. That was wrong – no one should fight for something they did not entirely understand – and for this poor child, her own ignorance would most likely be the death of her.

"Cora," Orsino addressed her as they halted before the doors. "Where is he?" The girl's eyes darted wildly to peer through the small crack jarred between the doors. She gulped noticeably, a subtle tremor jolting down her arms. Either something awful lie just ahead, or this poor little mage was too jittery for her own good. Isabela had trouble discerning which it was.

"They've restrained him in the main hall, First Enchanter. He no longer seems to be resisting, but-"

"Thank you, Cora. You may go wait with the others now." The girl nodded, visibly relieved as she sprinted past them to stand with the other circle mages. Aya looked to Isabela and gave her head a slight, distasteful shake. The pirate guessed the apostate, too, was mulling over the girl's ripe age and the damning circumstances she'd been forced into. Such thoughts resonated more painfully with the Champion, and Isabela reached out to squeeze her hand lightly as Orsino pushed through the doors, motioning them forward.

Each taking a deep breath, the women stepped forward, heads held high and without fear. However, the thing – the man – awaiting them, caused both to yield. Orsino, on the other hand, merely crossed his arms over his chest, his lip curling into a disapproving snarl as he eyed their prisoner. "Of course, you see why I found your opinion necessary in this matter," the First Enchanter said evenly, a hint of reprove marring his intonation.

They did see, all too clearly. Before them, hands and ankles fettered in rusted shackles, a former friend had fallen to his knees. Head hanging low in the shame he made no effort to conceal, Anders had returned to them, despite Hawke's explicit orders.

Isabela bristled immediately with anger and resentment. She would not forgive him for implicating her Champion in the manner that he had. A man fighting for the cause of mages, putting a fellow apostate, Kirkwall's Champion, at risk of exile for attempting to engage her as an accomplice. Luckily, no one found Aya at fault for what Anders had done – after all, she may have helped him gather the ingredients for whatever… spell or explosive device he had enacted, but she had refused to help him get into the chantry. She couldn't be faulted, at least in Isabela's opinion, for not _seeing_ what he was trying to do. They had been friends, yes, and some may say this should've made it easier for Hawke to uncover his plot; but in fact, it only complicated the situation further. Because Aya believed in friendship, and she had desperately seen in the healer what she had wanted to see: a troubled man with a kind heart. Deep down, there was still kindness buried within Anders, but nearly all of that kindness and compassion had been quelled by Justice's domineering influence.

Clenching her fists and openly adorning a scowl in the direction of the healer, the pirate turned to examine Aya with a tentative eye. She expected to see fury – trembling shoulders, white knuckles, wicked sneer – but surprisingly, none were present in the apostate's demeanor. She was firm and calm, her posture straight as an arrow as she stood decidedly still. Circumstances notwithstanding, Isabela could sense no tumult beneath that cool veneer. She was genuinely as calm as she appeared, much to everyone's bafflement.

Completely deadpan, the apostate turned to Orsino and replied, "I do." Her tone was flat and rigid, as though forced in an attempt to mask her own thoughts. "What did you want to do with him?"

"Execution," the elf said, matter-of-factly. Aya paused for a moment before nodding in recognition. Anders _should_ be executed for what he'd done – he himself had said he expected to pay for his crimes with his own life. However, Hawke's brand of punishment, as Isabela saw it, seemed far more fitting. He was a tortured man, and for him, death would be pardon. To live would be misery, and so that was to be his sentence, under Hawke's command; however, Aya wasn't the type to wish misery on anybody, and Isabela still held some disbelief regarding her harsh decision.

"Understandable. It is an option, of course. But, I told Anders to _leave._ I told him not to return. _That_ was an immutable order. If he came back, knowing what hell he would face, he must have something rather important to say. I'd like to hear it. Unless he just has another fine institution to blow up, in which case, have his head." Isabela bit her tongue in order to restrain a chuckle. Never had she heard a sarcastic remark quite as dry as that which Hawke now issued. Of course, Aya did not appear in good humor; the sardonic joke had been more of a reflex than anything else – a defense mechanism, perhaps, combating emotions she was desperately avoiding. She was ostensibly lacking emotion right now, but Isabela knew that couldn't be. No matter whether that she was wearing the face of the Champion, as opposed to the face of Aya Hawke. The woman was too tempestuous not to harbor strong emotion beneath her Champion's façade.

"I can accept that," the First Enchanter conceded with a dismissive wave of his hand. Hawke then stepped forward, looming over her old friend as she stood directly in his line of vision. Heavily weighted, he was respectful enough to lift his head, and meet Aya's callous, scrutinizing gaze with a shameful face. Amazingly, it had only been a few hour since they'd last seen each other, but it already seemed as though he aged, quite miserably.

The fire that Justice had galvanized within him earlier now appeared extinguished. His tawny eyes had dulled, and were rimmed with a pink tinge. His lips were pursed when he met Hawke's smoldering emeralds, nostrils flaring slightly in a combination of what seemed to be fear and seething guilt. He was almost… pitiful, like some stray Lowtown pup that had had the tenacity and spirit kicked out of him by greasy drunkards. But he was unrepentant, Isabela knew – there was no pity to be taken on him – he was simply frightened that Hawke would destroy him, despite her kind inability to do so.

"I knew you would listen to me, Hawke. I-" Aya cut off the rapid stream of words that burst from his lips with an upraised palm. She said nothing, made no change in her blank facial expression, yet that simple motion was enough to shut him up. His jaw snapped instantly, pupils dilating as he leered hopelessly at the woman he'd once loved, and probably still did.

"You'll speak when spoken to. Honestly, it's the only way this will work. Otherwise, you'll make me…" Finally, her impassive front faltered, if only briefly. It became suddenly quite obvious to Isabela just how hard the woman was forcing her own equanimity. Her words implied that without the effort, she would succumb to something far worse than detachment. "Just cooperate."

"I will."

Hawke nodded, looking to the mages who restrained Anders before carefully telling him, "I'm going to ask these mages to let you stand on your own." Snapping back with a swiftness that clearly surprised Orsino, she quelled his ready protest with an authoritative glare. The First Enchanter sighed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

"Listen to her," he commanded the circle mages. Hawke continued.

"If you so much as move without first receiving an order from me, our discussion will end, and I will allow Orsino to execute you. Understood?" Anders nodded, rubbing at his bruised forearms, and straightening his posture awkwardly. "Good. Make this quick. Tell me why you've defied my orders."

Isabela was truly amazed at how easily Aya took to her Champion persona, in spite of how greatly it differed from her actual self. Hawke, in her most relaxed, natural state was humorous, gentle, and highly empathetic. She was always strong, but never cold – not like this. The Champion was a leader though, capable of picking and choosing when to dole out a specific emotion. The stratagem was aloof and calculating, holding stock in moral rightness, but paying it little acknowledgement. _She ought to wear her Champion face to our wicked grace games more often, _the pirate thought wistfully, before seriously noting that Aya would never act so cold without absolute necessity.

"I seek some small form of… atonement. Not much, but… it's still something. Isn't it?" There was a bit of pleading desperation in his tone.

"That depends on what it is," Hawke replied curiously.

"I fear this won't be so much a war as it is a slaughter. You are going to be a target, Hawke." He paused for a moment before asking, "May I be honest with you?"

"Now's as good a time as any."

"I will be surprised if you live. Our other friends-" She stopped him again, wagging a finger.

"_My_ friends." He sighed, adorning a knowing frown.

"They will be at great risk, too. And…" He struggled with his next words, his face contorting into a pained, conflicted countenance. "After what I've done, I know it may seem as though I care for nothing but my cause, no one but myself. But that's… it's not true." He met Aya's gaze again, subdued ardor burning far off in those tormented eyes. "The things I said to you – they were cruel, and I know that now. In the moment, it felt right; I was possessed. But as soon as the adrenaline wore off and I realized I was _truly_ on my own – without friends, companions, a Champion to save my ass – fear set in, and with it, real guilt.

"You know I love you, Aya. I always have, probably since the day we first met." He let out a mirthless chuckle, causing Isabela to grind her teeth. Petulant envy flushed over her as she reminded herself that Anders had met Aya before she had. This meant he'd loved her longer. It was a stupid thought – a _pathetic_ thought, she told herself – but she couldn't help it. She was almost wishing Hawke would just hand him over to Orsino already. Deep down though, she knew that wasn't likely, in spite of the Champion's righteousness. Hawke was too good for that, much to Isabela's chagrin. "Justice hated it. He thought you would impede our work. I wish I could say he influenced my words earlier, but… those were my own. Jealousy got the better of me, and for that, I am sorry." Suddenly, he trained his worrying gaze on Isabela, and spoke somewhat tersely. "To you, too, Isabela. I apologize."

Isabela wasn't sure what she should say to that. In her opinion, an appropriate response would be none at all, and that is what she gave him.

"I accept your apology," Hawke replied. "But I offer you no forgiveness."

"I expected as much. It needed to be said, though. To both of you." Hawke paused, her arms relaxing slightly at her sides as she pondered what he'd said. It seemed foolish to Isabela that the healer would hold so little confidence in the woman he was attempting to appeal to. Then again, maybe _she_ was just being… naïve.

"You didn't come back just to say 'sorry' though. And if you truly are seeking atonement, I can tell you there is none to be found in mere apologies. So, what do you aim to do?"

"Help." Isabela immediately raised a brow, barely suppressing a scoff. Hawke, however, remained impassive. "I'm the best healer you know-"

"We have healers among our ranks, abomination," Orsino interjected, his voice cold.

"Who's to say they won't all be killed? Face it, Orsino: your numbers will be cut drastically by the day's end." Anders turned back to Aya, determination overtaking his hollow features. "I want to fight with you – take out as many of these bastards as I can – and protect you and your companions." His voice suddenly softened, eyes delicately pleading. "I care about all of you. At least, the real me does. The me that hasn't been tainted by this spirit of vengeance. Despite everything that has happened, everything _I _have caused, I can think of nothing worse than seeing you killed by these foul templars. Or any of you, for that matter. And so I ask you now, Hawke, let me join you. After this fight is over, Maker willing we have all survived, I will submit to whatever fate you see fit for me. But for now, I would like to do everything in my power to ensure your well-being."

Hawke stared hard at the healer for a long moment, her face decidedly cool until her brow crumpled. Frowning, she walked back to stand beside Isabela with slightly slumped shoulders, and addressed her lover. Her face was once again troubled, unsure of what to do. Her principles obviously warred within her – the Champion wanted to deny his help, sending him off to his death; but Aya, a compassionate woman who had once regarded the man as a dear friend, could not subject him to his own execution. Now, whether or not that same woman should accept his offer… that was a different conflict entirely. Logically, he had made a point: they would be safer with an adept healer fighting at their side, ready to aid them at a moment's notice. Regardless, she still could not forgive him for what he had done – she probably never would – and for this betrayal, she wanted to turn him away.

"I can't make this decision on my own," the apostate whispered, eliciting a small, sympathetic smile from Isabela. The pirate always found it somewhat endearing when Hawke would turn to her with a child's uncertainty, seeking answers she herself could not give. There were instances when the small degree of innocence Aya somehow managed to maintain would show itself, unabashedly, and this moment, this _plea_, was just one such instance.

"I don't think you want my opinion, Hawke," she replied gently. "I'm nowhere near as diplomatic as you are, and I can tell you right now, there's no way I could make a decision like this without bias." The mage gave a small smile, in spite of the way her eyes fell to the floor, staring vacantly down at her boots. She was thinking hard – perhaps too hard. Isabela placed a hand warmly on the blonde woman's shoulder and said, "We should speak to the others, allow them to voice their opinions. If you'd like, I could go explain to them now."

"Would you," Hawke asked gratefully, raising her gaze to meet the pirate's. Her smile suddenly appeared far more earnest than it had before.

"Absolutely. Once they understand the situation, I will bring them out to make a final decision." Aya sighed, leaning forward to place a soft kiss on the pirate's cheek. She tried to hide it, but Isabela _did_ feel a small amount of satisfaction from how this tiny, tender display must make Anders feel. Hawke was aware of this, too, but seemed not to care.

"Thank you. And please, be quick."

* * *

"So, what do you all think," Hawke asked, taking a moment to gaze upon each of her companions as they stood in a semi-circle around the healer. Each bore forthright indications of their opinion within their countenance – some rigid in disapproval, some rife with trepidation, and others exuding subtle optimism. Behind them, Orsino stood with a scowl, barely able to keep his foot from tapping impatiently against the stone floor.

"This is a waste of time," the First Enchanter commented edgily. "He deserves none of this. Will you prolong this reunion even after the templars have arrived?" Aya narrowed her eyes at the elf's poorly concealed reprove.

"We will reach our decision sooner and more effectively if you keep your irritation to yourself." Having no retort to offer, Orsino merely turned away, huffing slightly at the rebuke. "Aveline, your opinion?" Of course, Hawke sought the Guard Captain's opinion first and foremost. As not only her dear friend, but her surrogate older sibling, as well, the apostate held Aveline's judgments in high esteem. The only time she'd veered drastically from the warrior's opinion had been in regards to her view on Aya's relationship with Isabela. That Hawke had disregarded her thoughts on the situation consistently, and almost completely, had been confirmation of her heart's truest affections from the beginning. And that Aveline tolerated that disregard… well, that was a testament to the mutually respecting, familial bond the women had forged since their flight from Ferelden.

"This is a feeble attempt at any sort of redemption. And _I _am certainly not one to consort with the wicked in any capacity-"

"Hey, what about me," Isabela asked in mock offense, a small, impish grin on her face. Sometimes, she truly could not hold her own tongue.

"Isabela," Hawke and Aveline reprimanded in unison, causing the pirate to grin wider.

Despite her chiding, the guardswoman still added, to Isabela's satisfaction, "Isabela is the exception. Strictly as a favor to you, Hawke."

"Bullshit," the rogue muttered under her breath. Only Aya seemed to notice as she rolled her eyes.

"Under _any_ other circumstances, I would agree with Orsino. But our current situation is extremely delicate. For our own benefit, it would be wise to allow Anders to join us. After this is over, however…"

Hawke concluded the thought for her. "We'll cross that bridge when we get there. Thank you, Aveline." She then turned to the dwarf. "Varric?"

He addressed Anders directly when he spoke, saying, "I won't lie to you, Blondie – you make me nervous. But at this point, the anxiety you make me feel is nothing compared to those damn templars. I wouldn't be so averse to you fighting by my side, just so long as you'll heal it. You know, in case a templar's blade manages to find its way inside my flank." Anders nodded, smiling for the first time since Hawke and Isabela had seen him.

"I agree with Varric and Aveline," Merrill squeaked. "Particularly considering I'll be one of the people they want especially dead. I still think it's wrong though. I mean, what you did Anders. Far worse than my work with the Eluvian." Again, Isabela had to stifle a small chuckle at the indignant nature of the small elf's comment. Noticing this, Merrill turned nervously to Hawke and said, "I'm just saying. You asked for my opinion."

"I know, Merrill. You're allowed to be a bit agitated." She then turned to Fenris, her eyes curiously beseeching for his judgment. They all expected his words to be particularly scathing; however, he did not even offer Anders a brooding snarl.

Instead, the elf stood nonchalantly and said, arms crossed impassively over his chest, "Just kill him." They stood staring at the former slave for a moment, imploring him to say something more. They'd asked for his opinion after all; he was free to open fire. After another moment of awkward silence, however, Hawke shrugged.

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"Compelling input," Aya mumbled, turning to her brother. She was, admittedly, a bit anxious to hear what he had to say. While she'd been talking with Isabela earlier, Varric had regaled Carver with the day's events, explaining in dramatic detail how Anders had used and implicated Aya to achieve his ends. The story-teller in him had put emphasis on all the right moments, implanting all the _wrong_ urges in the young warrior's head. Hawke was grateful that he'd at least exercised restraint up to this point. She wasn't sure what he would do now; however, she would patiently accept whatever behavior he may display, just short of decapitating the healer.

"Sister, I would like to address him directly." He wasn't requesting permission; rather, he was informing. Hawke was nervous, but nodded in assent.

"Whatever you feel necessary." Carver stepped forward, posture straight as he puffed out his chest dominantly. He towered over Anders, more so in presence than in physical stature. All the while, his hand remained balefully over the hilt of his sword.

"Anders, as a templar I feel it is my duty to bring you to justice and punish you properly. In such a case, you ought to pay for your crimes with your life. Do you acknowledge this?" Fighting back a sneer, Anders slowly nodded, clearly unimpressed with Carver's show of power. "However, I do not fight alongside these mages as a templar. I fight alongside them as a Hawke. Therefore, I am not duty-bound to the order to kill you." Another pause, and Anders nodded once again. Carver did not continue though; instead, he clenched a tight fist and swung wide at the healer, connecting cleanly with his nose. Anders recoiled from the hit immediately, bringing both hands up to cup what was sure to be a broken bone with a sharp, groaning hiss. Unsurprised by this action, Aya barely flinched; in fact, no one really seemed to care – not even Aveline. Carver then resumed his speech casually. "I am duty-bound as a brother to punch you in the face though." He poked a finger sternly into Anders' chest, threatening him. "Don't screw with my sister. Or any of us, for that matter." The young man sighed in concession. "That being said, we do need a healer on our team. So, I will allow you to fight beside us. But I'm telling you right now: control that damn spirit inside of you. If Justice gives us any trouble, I will end you. Got it?" After taking a moment to collect his bearings, holding a hand over his nose and applying the soothing balm of magic to cease the bleeding, Anders nodded

Turning, Carver shrugged once more towards his sister and said, "Well, I've said all I wanted to say." Aya shook her head in slight reproach, while contending with the chuckle that so wanted to burst from her. Even when she and Carver were younger, constantly fighting, teasing, yelling at each other, his snarky pomp had always secretly amused her.

"You didn't hit him too hard, did you," she asked, sighing.

"Please, I didn't even knock him unconscious. He should be thanking me right now." Hawke didn't even spare a glance in Anders' direction before turning lastly to Isabela. She didn't need to see his bloody face to know he'd be seething with quiet rage at such arrogant comments.

When Aya faced her, Isabela was particularly cavalier. "I agree with Fenris." Hawke's eyes rounded slightly in surprise upon hearing this, causing the pirate to smile. "But that's the bias talking, remember? I guess if I _must_ think practically, I agree with everyone else. He should be allowed to fight with us," she begrudgingly conceded. She wouldn't mind seeing the healer dragged away by the templars, but she knew he'd made a point. The opposing warriors would be fierce, attacking with intensity and ardor, a great deal of which would be aimed directly at _her_ lover. The chances of Aya becoming injured were more staggering than she cared to admit, especially with Meredith's personal vendetta against the Champion. If Anders were behind them, they would at least have someone there to seal their wounds in a pinch. That advantage would be invaluable to them all, and would ease Isabela's mind considerably.

Hawke nodded, wearing a small smile. "Well, thank you. I know how you hate practical thinking."

"I do. Pragmatism doesn't suit me. I-" The rogue's next sarcastic comment was cut short when a heavily panting circle mage burst through the front doors leading into the main hall. The tiny, crimson droplets spattered across his robes were not missed by anyone, and the collective pulse within the room quickened in response.

"First Enchanter," he called, running towards Orsino with ill-restrained fervency. His message was flagrantly clear to all who watched, taking note of the anxiety in his stilted gait, as well as the urgency etched wildly into his features. Isabela, for one, stiffened almost immediately at the sight of him.

"Have they arrived?" Aside from the heavy breathing of the messenger standing before Orsino, the atmosphere of the room was tremendously quiet. The lack of sound disturbed the pirate slightly, causing her ears to ring uncomfortably as she awaited the mage's obvious reply.

"Yes, sir. We should be able to hold them off a little while longer; but once they break through our barriers, there won't be much we can do to keep them out of the Gallows." Orsino nodded tersely, grim lines setting themselves into his face, green eyes suddenly tumultuous. His expression darkened momentarily, or so Isabela thought. It could have merely been the affects of a passing shadow, flickering precariously in the torchlight; however, she was sure she saw a bleak, ephemeral shade of remorse stab quickly into the elf's features before he turned dourly to face the Champion.

"You heard him. I need your decision _now._" He pointed harshly in Anders' direction, the healer composing his battered face in response. Aya hesitated slightly in answering; the majority vote of her companions indicated a simple answer, as did her own common sense. However, somewhere deep within her gut, she was still monumentally pissed off at her old friend – that foul emotion was clouding her usually strong judgment.

Disregarding her own feelings on the matter, she turned to Orsino and said, "He'll fight with us." Orsino flinched slightly, though he'd more than likely expected such an outcome.

He stiffly nodded. "Fine. Retreat into the inner chamber and wait for my word – then we attack. In the meantime," he strode swiftly to where Hawke stood, his step markedly dismal, "Prepare yourself and your companions, Champion. The battle is finally upon us."

* * *

It had taken the templars a good twenty minutes to break through the opposing forces and make their way into the Gallows. Most advantageously for those who waited anxiously inside, the building itself was something of a stone labyrinth – a maze of chambers, halls, and endless doors. Concealed within the innermost chamber of their makeshift fortress, Hawke, Isabela, and their companions were about as guarded as they could've hoped for. The confusing structure of the building would allow them a few extra minutes of mental preparation that they sorely needed.

Few words were spoken after Aya had delegated positions to those fighting alongside her. Isabela, Aveline, Carver, and Merrill she wanted close by her at all times. Normally, she would have urged Merrill to keep at a safe distance, but under their current circumstances, she knew better. With the ardency and blood-lust of the templars, the very idea of a mage's "safe distance" or defensive stratagem had been completely abolished. For Merrill to hold back at a defensive position would have meant isolation. Her isolation would have meant her death. It was safer to remain offensively by the sides of those who cared for her, who would fight for her. Aveline and Carver refused to let anything happen to _any_ of them; Isabela, too, was steadfast and deadly in her protection of those she loved most.

Varric, Fenris and Anders would remain close behind, acting as their defensive forces. The healer had never been much in the way of an offensive player – he was versed in a magic whose sole purpose was to heal, not hurt. Varric and Fenris would remain by his side, ever-cautious, and acquainting their respective weapons with all who dared to advance on them. Hawke was loathe to actually command her friends to "protect" Anders. Protection denoted a certain sense of care and fondness for the protected that she no longer felt for the apostate. However, she knew they needed him, for his healing abilities, and so demanded a very callous "Keep him alive."

After she'd completed her duty as their de facto leader, the attentive companions had expected some sort of… speech from Hawke. Isabela especially had assumed there would have been a poignant, dramatic discourse to follow her orders. Something akin to what she'd read in the many books she so adored. But much to everyone's surprise, Aya merely completed her orders with a succinct and fervent proclamation.

"If ever there was a group of people meant to surmount impossible feats, it would be us. I believe in each and every one of you. Your innate strengths will be the thing to save us. As long as we stick together, we can do this."

That was it. For several minutes, they stood taciturn within the chamber, occupying their minds with the shadows flickering mercurially across the floor; or the clashing sounds of battle, resonating through the Gallows in a sickly song. They each stood with a degree of physical distance placed between them. On the battlefield they would converge into a unified force; in wait, they were consumed by their individual dispositions – Orsino and Hawke being the exceptions. As leaders, they were to maintain a dutiful awareness of each of their companions at all times, making sure all were prepared in their own way.

The shortest distance had lain between Isabela and Aya. For both of their sake's, the pirate felt it necessary that they should feel some semblance of body heat radiating towards each other, like a kind, protective flame; that they should remain aware of each other's steady breathing; that they should only need to reach out their hand but a few inches in order to graze the other's flesh. There was silence between them, as there was everybody, but they upheld a small physical comfort that was imperative to their current emotional fortitude.

As the sounds of fighting drew closer, Hawke noticed that Orsino's composure began to falter, just slightly. She leaned into the elf and whispered, low enough that only Isabela was able to hear, with some strain, "You don't believe we have a chance of winning this fight." Aya's words were caught somewhere precariously in between an inquiry and a statement. The First Enchanter's brow furrowed at the implication.

"With you on our side… perhaps." He paused, allowing his head to hang slightly. "But, even if we win, what then? More templars would come, with even larger armies. We are apostates now. Our only hope lies in the circles elsewhere in Thedas." Hawke shook her head adamantly at this declaration, maintaining a strong, even tempo in her voice.

"You're right: you _are_ apostates. You need not rely on the circle any longer, for guidance, for restraint. They can aid us, yes; but you create your own fate now." Orsino's nostrils flared slightly at this, betraying the sense of calm he portrayed.

"We will _need_ them to rise up with us, against this injustice. For I can assure you, we will find sympathy nowhere else…" It was a plaintive truth. As idealistic as Aya was, even she knew that her kind would find no acceptance or support outside of their own ranks.

Finding it unnecessary to attempt to refute his words, Hawke softly said, "For now, all we have is each other. And we will defend you as best we can."

Orsino didn't glance at Hawke when he said, "I know. Thank you, Champion."

They could hear the templars drawing closer to them. Plated feet padding noisily over stone floors; broad doors opening and closing heavily; the calls of urgent voices guiding their companions down the right halls, through the right doors. Every so often the boom of magic would resound through the concrete, followed by the clashing of blades as the few circle mages left hidden within the building would fight back. It wasn't much use, of course – their comrades had taken to the battlefield outside, and the paltry numbers within stood not a chance against the templars. They would kill a few, no doubt, but they would surely meet their own deaths.

When the templars finally forced their way into the inner chamber, Hawke and her companions were poised to attack. The opposition was fewer than they expected, which meant one of two things. One: the mages fighting from within the Gallows had cut down a sizeable number of the templars that stood in their path. Two: few had been able to fight past the circle mages guarding the front doors to begin with. Either scenario boded well for the mages.

Hours earlier, Hawke and her companions had taken on much larger groups of enemies – with some trouble, and a few close calls, yes – but the fact remained that they had done so without the added help of Orsino and his mages. The additional firepower allowed the more seasoned fighters to cut down their warring adversaries with a measure of ease. Unfortunately, Orsino's mages, being the _less_ seasoned fighters, were wrought with vulnerability. Aya did all she could to help, but it was difficult. Juggling two or three templars at one time was hard enough; however, she was also keeping close watch on her friends. She made an attempt at saving a circle mage whenever she found an opening, but such opportunities were scarce. The enemy wanted her dead. Their ferocity didn't leave much room for her to save others.

Watching her fellow mages fall before her, at times in a gruesome and very bloody manner, was severely grating. The anguished cries of the templars fell deaf upon her ears – she could not dwell upon them when the pain of her own kind felt as palpable as the rapid beating of her heart. Hawke told herself she was doing all that she could, yet her conscience remained oppressive. In a way, this blood was irrevocably upon _her_ hands.

"Watch it, Hawke!" Aya was jarred from this shortcoming as Aveline swooped in with sword and shield, knocking back an angry templar she had not noticed standing behind her. She told herself to focus, to save her lamentation for later, when she and the mages stood victorious. For they _would_ claim triumph – they had to.

With renewed fervency and determination, Aya called out to her nearest companions – Aveline, Carver, and Isabela (_always_ Isabela). "Hold them! I'm ending this!" They had no need to nod in confirmation; the three unconsciously drew closer to Hawke, arranging themselves in a swift semi-circle around the apostate and knitting into a formidable wall. "When I tell you to move, you move." At this, Aya thumped the butt of her staff hard into the ground, summoning a currency of heat and crackling energy around her that sent shivers down her companions' spines. With her free hand, palm open, she cupped an invisible flame, soon materializing in a purplish, crimson blaze. The blonde apostate clenched her eyes shut, inciting that small reserve of raw power untapped within the far reaches of her body. She did not often concede to utilize this power, but under such circumstances, it was as imperative to convey a message to her enemies as it was to simply defeat them. She would not sap the capacity of this force entirely – that was something she could not afford to do – but would inflame it, nonetheless. In doing so, she reminded the opposing warriors just what they were facing: a primordial power as old as time itself.

"Move!" Aya was grateful that they reacted to her command instantly, because she wasn't sure she could've held her magic much longer. She had an impressive degree of control over her power – it was the first thing her father had ever taught her and Bethany about magic – but a force such as the one she'd just roused would be hard for any mage to contain. As soon as they cleared a path, she lifted all restraint, save for one tight bond held around the direction of her magic, and let loose a monstrous firestorm. The swirling blaze instantly engulfed their adversaries, pushing them towards their deaths with agonizing cries.

The flames dissipated as quickly as they erupted, save for a few scant blazes smoldering around the concrete. All templars that had been victim to the storm lay incapacitated upon the floor; those that had evaded the fire now stood gaping at the Champion briefly, perhaps taken off guard by the unexpected display of intensity. In this moment, their shock betrayed them, allowing Aya's allies the upper hand. She wanted to smile at their easy distraction through her begrudging panting, but found her body's desire to lean into her staff more powerful. Perhaps she had overdone it a _little_ bit – she cursed herself under her breath while resting firmly against her staff. It was going to be a long evening.

"Andraste's tits, sister," Carver exclaimed, a wide grin on his face. "I nearly forgot what a force you are to be reckoned with." Isabela, too, was amused, as she coked a half-smile brimming with pride and desire for her mage. Present circumstances notwithstanding, it was always something of a turn on to her when Aya displayed just how powerful she could be. _A force to be reckoned with _indeed._ And not just on the battlefield… _she thought distractedly.

"You're not exactly worried about conserving mana, are you," Aveline said, thinking logically as always. Hawke shrugged sheepishly, wearing a slightly embarrassed smile. Of course, Aveline was right.

"Look at it all," Orsino's melancholic voice called from across the chamber. Hawke and her companions immediately snapped to attention, turning to face the First Enchanter. He stood trembling amidst the throng of bodies that were strewn haphazardly across the floor, the majority of which belonged to circle mages. Most still bled, profusely in some cases, as they lay in awkward, unnatural positions upon the cold, stone floor. Pools of blood collected beneath each body, expanding over the concrete to merge with the nearest puddle of crimson.

Hawke's face immediately fell in solemnity, and she strode purposefully over to where the quivering elf stood. She understood the situation was grim, but he could not allow his composure to abate, not while his own kind still stood a chance.

"First Enchanter-"

"I wonder why they don't just drown us as infants." Aya winced slightly at the cold hopelessness of his tone. "Why wait, right?" He turned suddenly, his face gripped with despondency. Hawke took another step forward. "Why give us the illusion of hope?"

"Orsino…" The Champion wavered. She could try and dispute his words, though not without a degree of dishonesty. She wasn't hopeless – Hawke was too idealistic to be hopeless – but there were certainly times when she felt _without hope._ Right now, she had her qualms. All her life, she'd had the niggling, pessimistic thought that perhaps the templars only granted mages their lives so that they could take them away from them. Usually, she only ever allowed this thought to cross her mind on the darkest of days. Today was certainly dark, but she had fared darker. In her eyes, there _was_ a sliver of hope. More than a sliver, in fact. Together, they could defeat Meredith.

"You cannot think like this. These mages need you to be strong. _We _need you on our side."

"I refuse to keep running. I won't wait for her to kill me." The sudden fury in Orsino's voice caused Hawke to stiffen. She knew there was more she needed to say – something profound, perhaps – in order to calm the elf.

Sadly, "You… you're not helping," was all she could muster.

"I am tired of helping, as well," the First Enchanter proclaimed, in a voice darkly detached. He suddenly fixed his detesting gaze on Aya, and his lip curled into a snarl. Behind them, Isabela placed a hand coolly upon the hilt of one of her daggers, sensing what was rapidly becoming clear to all who listened to Orsino: his convictions had gone awry.

"What are you-"

"Quentin's research was too evil, too dangerous. So, I put it aside. But I see now there's no other way…"

"No," Aya yelled, stepping forward heatedly at the mention of her mother's killer. Sparing a sidelong glance, Isabela saw Carver's posture go rigid, a scowl deepening on his lips. He too flexed his palm over the pommel of his blade, readying himself for another fight.

At this exact moment, another wave of templars burst through the large, wooden doors – this group smaller than the last. Perhaps they had expected to find their brothers and sisters standing victorious, rifling through the bodies of dead mages; hoisting the body of the Champion above them to bring back to the Knight-Commander, like some sort of trophy. Instead, when they saw their comrades slain, littered around both Orsino and the Champion, they stopped short.

"If Meredith expects blood magic…" With a sneer, the elf reached inside of his robes and with one fluid motion, produced a small, ornate blade. Hawke's eyes went wide at the sight of it. "Then I will give it to her!"

"Don't!" The Champion's protests were all for naught, as Orsino slashed the blade swiftly across his open palm. The blood dip not drip from the magical wound; as was typical, it rose from the gash in glistening, crimson beads and cascaded about the enchanter's hand. The vortex of blood widened, propagating around the elf's body. Simultaneously, the slow deluge of blood painting the floor dispersed into a red mist, ascending from the concrete to coalesce with the maelstrom now swirling around Orsino.

"Maker, help us all." He threw back his head, arms outstretched as his entire body erupted in a glaring, white glow. The blinding light seemed to explode outward from his flesh, skittering over the stone floors in eerily bright tendrils. These tendrils caressed the bodies of the dead circle mages strewn about the floor, prodding them with some sort of deathly invigoration. Hawke stumbled backwards, just barely managing to keep herself upright as she gaped on in horror. How many atrocities could she possibly bear witness to in one day? How many betrayals?

The bodies glided upwards from the ground, joining Orsino's wild vortex. They revolved around him, drawing closer to his body with each rotation, until they began to curl tightly around him. It frightened Aya, how easily the bodies seemed to fit into the contours of his body – one arm draping around his neck; a hand lifelessly cupping his cheek; a cadaverous face pressed against his thigh. And with each revolting meld, the light grew brighter and brighter, enveloping the entirety of his flesh, dead or otherwise, until all anyone could see was the ethereal, mossy glow of the First Enchanter's eyes.

As the light ebbed away, the bodies of the dead began writhing, growing effortlessly into Orsino's body. The corpses bonded with his once lively flesh, now pallid and appearing leathery. The length of his newly colossal frame was marred with pulsing, fleshy bulges. The outlines of an appendage, a face, a ribcage, were made apparent across his hideous body as he stood upright, hunching slightly with the added weight of his new form. Hawke recalled having seen this monstrosity in a magic book at some point in her life: it was a Harvester, an utter abomination.

"How…?" A question, half-formed, died quietly on her tongue. _How could he do this? How could he betray us? _Admittedly though, Hawke found the whys of the situation to be far more staggering. Why would someone fight their entire life for a cause, only to relent at the last moment? Why would someone who had taught others of the atrocities of blood magic, of ways to avoid it, bow to its beckon? Why would someone abandon their comrades, consequentially dooming them to a fate as hopeless and cruel as that which they'd always feared?

Aya had been on Orsino's side since the beginning. He had pleaded for her help, asked her to make sacrifices, and she had done it. All _he'd_ had to do was remain strong – he hadn't even been the one doing any of the fighting – he hadn't had any need to risk his own neck. Yet… he'd given up his life. To blood magic. And now, he would die by the very hand he'd begged to save him, the hand that had been _given_ freely to him.

Hawke would never turn her back on her own kind; but sometimes, she truly had to wonder why. Mages had consistently shown themselves to be weak, to be desperate and cynical. The only pure mages she had ever known had been her father and sister, and the Maker had been cold enough to take them from her years ago. Who of her own people could she rely on now? Who could she trust?

"Hawke, c'mon!" Aya abruptly reigned in her thoughts, regaining awareness of their present circumstances. She registered the hand tightly grasping her shoulder, the amber eyes that peered into hers, abuzz with energy and concern. She registered the gravity of her own convictions, her need to be here and _fight._ She registered all of these things. Yet as she glanced between her lover and the abominable thing that Orsino had become, knowing _her own _duty was to kill him, she had an extremely hard time bringing herself to move.

All she could do was stare bemusedly back at Isabela, both hands clutching her staff in a deathly, white-knuckled grip, and ask, "Why?"

* * *

"And here we are, Champion. At long last." When they finally reached the Gallows' courtyard, having disposed of not only a throng of adversaries, but one horribly misguided ally, as well, Meredith, Knight-Captain Cullen, and a horde of templars were waiting for them. The Knight-Commander appeared particularly livid, as was expected, and also a bit… ill, or so Isabela thought. Normally, she was a fair-skinned woman; but she now looked pallid and sickly, her skin flushed. As she bowed her head towards Hawke, her sky blue eyes were bloodshot and sheathed in a furious pall of shadows, tinged with the sneer on her lips.

The pirate suspected that, at this point, Aya would have very little tolerance for Meredith's senseless and increasingly embellished anger. The mage was exhausted – caked in blood and filth. A foul, unnaturally purplish splatter of blood marred the chest-plate of her armor from when she'd kicked in the head of the _thing_ Orsino had become. Having done so had disturbed her far more than she would ever admit, at least at this point. She detested killing enemies enough as it was; but an ally? Doing so had made her nauseous.

Regardless, she maintained a firm stance before Meredith, and spoke with a measure of calm made Isabela proud. "You'll pay for what you've done here." Her words were a matter of fact – there was no aggression in them, no real threat – yet they dripped with cool resolve.

"I will be _rewarded_ for what I've done here. In this world, and in the next." The thought of receiving anything but praise for her treatment of mages clearly appalled Meredith, eliciting a loud scoff. Her demeanor was uncharacteristically pompous, perhaps more so than before, and Hawke narrowed her eyes. "I have done nothing but perform my duty. What happens to you now is your own doing. You were Kirkwall's Champion; but by supporting these mages, you have forfeited your title, as well as all amnesty it granted you. Instead, you have elected to share the fate of the circle." Hawke's fists flinched slightly at her sides, no doubt restraining a sizeable flare of magic that caused the corner of Meredith's mouth to pull upwards in satisfaction. The way she gazed upon Aya – and only Aya, for that matter, as she ignored her companions entirely – was reminiscent of the way in which a predator might gaze upon their prey. Hawke was no longer a Champion to her, but a mere mage. And to her, mages were little more than bugs that she could torture or squash at will.

"Knight-Commander." Meredith's smirk faltered, falling in irritation at the sound of Cullen's voice. "I thought we intended to _arrest_ the Champion." Hawke shot a quick glance back at Isabela, her right brow quirked in slight curiosity. At this juncture, disparity would be a weakness among the ranks of the templars.

"You will do as I command, Cullen," the Knight-Commander snapped.

"No." His reply was immediate, defiance firm; however, his voice was tinged in subtle remorse. "I defended you when Thrask started whispering you were mad, but this is too far." Any question of her own sanity made Meredith's eyes widen vehemently.

"I will not allow insubordination!" Much to the surprise of Hawke and her companions, as well as Meredith's comrades, the blonde warrior actually drew her blade upon Cullen. As soon as the massive sword was once again exposed to the open air, the very sight of that luminous, crimson blade inflicted a shiver upon Aya's spine. As the goosebumps rose over her arms, she again had to wonder what enchantments had been used to craft this weapon, and why they affected her so sharply. On a hunch, she looked back to steal glances at both Merrill and Anders, and they too appeared uneasy.

"We must stay true to our path!" Perhaps spurred by Meredith's rage, the blade seemed to thrum with a sudden, lucid pulse, causing Cullen to stumble back from its threatening edge cautiously. The Knight-Commander grinned then, a wild glaze overtaking her eyes as she turned to regard Hawke once again. "You recognize it, do you not?" She gestured to the strange weapon, her countenance filled with gross mirth. "Pure lyrium, taken from the Deep Roads… the dwarf charged a great deal for his prize."

The Knight-Commander's voice had lowered into a near feral growl as she spoke, running the flat of her blade slowly over her own forearm. There was something… near sensual about the motion, as Meredith appeared utterly entranced, her blue eyes bulging and shaded with that intense red glow. A slight mist discharged from the weapon as it caressed her armor, drifting up through the air until it was languorously inhaled through her nostrils and parted lips. There was no doubt that she had been possessed by its power.

Isabela wasn't a fool – she knew that a lyrium addled Knight-Commander was a _very_ bad thing; however, she felt somewhat confused by the obvious anxiety in the mages' reactions. Aya, for one, clenched her jaw tightly and allowed a quick tremor to jerk at her hand; Merrill's already large eyes grew to an alarming size; and Anders looked as though he were about to lose control. Noticing the shift in their countenance, Meredith laughed arrogantly.

"In case you were wondering: no, I didn't purchase the idol out of mere attraction to its color and shine. I'm well aware of what effects _pure _lyrium can have on a mage." _What's the difference,_ the pirate thought quizzically to herself. Now she was truly confused, and increasingly nervous.

Hawke balled her fists quickly and spat, "You're insane, you know that?" If the comment even registered with the crazed templar, it simply rolled right off her. She merely shrugged and continued her patronizing explanation.

"Of course, the effects _have_ been known to vary between mages. I'm not sure why – a matter of strength or tolerance, I suppose; however, it never ends _well_. I know this for a fact. Many a wicked mage have met their fate through my blade. For some, the lyrium incites an instant death. A pity, compared to those who suffer an extended period of agony before succumbing to its power. A few have survived, much to my surprise, but not without lasting afflictions. And you Champion… I'm curious to see how the lyrium will take you."

Isabela looked nervously between Hawke and Merrill, then to Meredith's brightly glowing lyrium blade. Her previous confusion had now been dashed, and in its place resided a mixture of gnawing anxiety and anger. _And now we have a crazed templar with a veritable mage-slaying weapon. Fantastic._ As if the all-too-real possibility of her lover and dearest friend being killed hadn't been frightening enough before, it had just gotten a whole lot worse.

Hawke's composure had momentarily wavered under the Knight-Commander's ruthless proclamation, but now presented itself anew. It was imperative that she speak up before Anders was given the chance to lose himself to Justice's fury, and she was well aware of this fact. As difficult as it was to push aside her fears, she forced her calm façade without another thought, clearing her throat to speak.

"Don't kid yourself, Meredith. You will fall victim to its power, as well. I can already see you losing yourself." The Knight-Commander shook her head petulantly, once again scoffing at Aya's words.

"I am not like your kind, Champion… I am not _weak._" Suddenly, Meredith turned around to address her fellow templars, thrusting the tip of her blade carelessly in the direction of Hawke's face. Though the blade only came within six inches of the apostate, she recoiled instantly, stepping back while Isabela, Carver, and Aveline leaned forward, hands flitting over their own weapons. "All of you: I want her dead!"

"Enough," Cullen exclaimed, reaching out a hand warningly in Meredith's direction. "This is not what the order stands for. Knight-Commander, step down!" The raging templar lowered her blade awkwardly, turning slowly to face the Knight-Captain with a bestial look in her eyes. "I relieve you of your command."

When she spoke – eyes wide, lips upturned in a quivering, horrified smile – the madness was plain upon her face. "My own Knight-Captain falls prey to the influence of blood magic... you all have! You're _all _weak!" She expelled her words with disgust, as though they'd been decaying sickeningly within her mouth, and began flailing her sword accusingly around her. "Allowing the mages to control your minds, to turn you against me!" She turned around swiftly to point her blade at Hawke a second time, another soft, red mist emitting from the lyrium infused steel. "But _I _don't need any of you… I will protect this city myself!"

Though Knight-Captain Cullen had never particularly been a supporter of the Champion, he was a firm believer in ethics. To persecute Hawke was one thing; but for Meredith to execute her in cold blood, was another entirely. Such an act would be an injustice that Cullen refused to stand for.

"You'll have to go through me," he exclaimed, stepping in beside Aya and drawing his blade out to combat his superior's.

"Idiot boy," Meredith snarled, a slight, frantic laugh hitching in her throat. "Just like all the others…"

"She's clearly lost her mind," Anders muttered behind Hawke, causing Isabela to look back at him sharply.

"Yeah. Tell us something we don't know." Without glancing at the pirate, Hawke squeezed her forearm in a light warning, requesting she bite her tongue, if only for this one solemn occasion. Meredith had withdrawn slightly now, stepping back as the templars parted around her, some out of fear, and others out of acquiescence. She held the hilt of her sword stiffly between clenched fists, planting her feet firmly upon the cobblestones, and never breaking eye contact with Hawke.

Isabela heard Aya whisper under her breath as she stepped forward, removing her staff from her back holster: "Wish me luck." For a brief moment, the pirate had to restrain herself from reaching out and grabbing her apostate roughly by the wrist, tacitly pleading with her not to subject herself to this fate. She wished she had no doubts – she wished she could say with a modicum of certainty that within a few hours' time, she and Hawke could return to the _Siren's Call_ and prepare to sail away from Kirkwall. However, her misgivings were persistent, and made her stomach feel as though it had been weighted with a heavy stone.

No matter her fears though, it was as much Isabela's duty to allow Hawke to bridge the short distance between herself and Meredith as it was Hawke's own unflagging duty to fight – for the freedom of mages, for Meredith's inevitable downfall, and for her own future. Regardless, that last simple gesture – the soft, warm grip Aya had used to clutch her lover's arm – suddenly began to feel a little too much like a silent goodbye. _No. Never a 'Goodbye.' It's a 'See you when this is all over.' _

Hawke's pace was calm and decided, placing her before the glaring Knight-Commander. A small smile quirked at the corner of Meredith's mouth as rolled the hilt of her great-sword through her hand in a fluid, sweeping motion. She raised the blade high above her head, flexing her pale fingers over the handle before driving the sword hard into the concrete. Most other weapons would have buckled against the stone tiles, quivering as they collided with resilient ground. Yet Meredith's blade, in a testament to its lyrium infused strength, dug explosively into the concrete, causing deep crevices to shiver through the stone instantly.

"Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked..." Her fervent words swelled in harmony with the bleak fissures crawling over the ground, erupting with the luminous crimson that was characteristic of raw lyrium. That strange mist hovered over the cobblestones, churning about the sword in a blood-red eddy that rose swiftly in intensity. Meredith's pale face, light hair, and piercing blue eyes were aglow with that foreboding light, completely awash in the shade of lyrium. With one last maddening howl, the Knight-Commander gutted the concrete, tearing her blade out of the tiles. "… And do not falter!"

A flaming lyrium barrier sprung up around the perimeter of the courtyard, fixing them indefinitely in their current location. For Hawke, Merrill, and Anders, there would most certainly be no escaping – not without feeling the fatal burn of lyrium. For their other companions, there was still the option of escape; however, none would dare abandon their friends, not after swearing their commitment to the mages' cause.

"Merrill, Anders – stay back," Hawke commanded urgently, dashing back with her staff at the ready, magic buzzing preemptively over her palms. "Stay away from her blade!" Meredith took note of this order with some amusement, raising her sword high to intercept coinciding blows from Aveline and Carver. For the time being, the Knight-Commander faced them alone; however, they found hardly any advantage in their numbers. Meredith's skin was now inherently ablaze with the burn of lyrium, red electricity swarming around her skin with a protective hum. The non-mages of the group found some difficulty in getting near her; when in close proximity to the lyrium-crazed templar, they were buffeted by an intense physical pressure, as well as sweltering heat. It literally felt as though the woman were on fire… to them. They could hardly imagine what effect she would have on Hawke, Merrill, and Anders.

"You can only evade the pull of the lyrium… for so long," Meredith cried out, mirth plain in her voice as she ducked and parried oncoming blows. However, it was clear she would soon become overwhelmed by her many attackers, and she reacted accordingly. The templar flourished her blade in a sweeping, circular motion, causing a hazy wave of crimson energy to explode out into the immediate vicinity. The current rocked the warriors and rogues back on their heels, and sent Merrill, the mage closest to the Knight-Commander, hurling into the concrete, grunting at the collision.

"Merrill!" Isabela ran towards the blood mage immediately, reaching out a protective hand to pull her to her feet. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Isabela," the elf replied, rubbing her lower back with a determined look upon her face. "I just need to keep a greater distance." With no time to debate either of their well beings, the pirate nodded in concurrence, sprinting back into the fray. She came up behind the templar, jabbing her dual blades towards the woman's back, never expecting the blow to land. Reflexively, Meredith twisted her torso, avoiding Isabela's attack, but allowing herself to be caught unawares by the thrusting of Aveline's shield.

The Knight-Commander stumbled back, her fierce, cocky grin soon being replaced by a deep, hateful scowl. She fumbled awkwardly to deflect another barrage of strikes from her enemies' blades with her own massive sword. Hawke acknowledged this unease, and commanded her companions to clear a path for her.

"Make room!" The apostate rotated her staff twice in her hand, raising the other to summon a sharp, arcane bolt. Such a spell was particularly common among mages, and generally of the weaker variety, but when imbued with strength and ferocity, it could be especially harsh. Hawke allowed the magic to pool in her palm for a moment, thriving with power, before extending her arm to release the bolt in Meredith's direction. Distracted by the immediate assault she faced, the Knight-Commander did not notice Aya's magic until the last moment, taking a hit to the chest that sent her sailing backwards towards the Gallows' steps.

Meredith struggled, small currents of electricity ricocheting off her as she breathlessly attempted to stand. She wavered slightly, balancing against her sword with bright, flaming eyes.

"You are a fool to think you can take us alone," Aya yelled, the calm in her voice giving way to an increasing measure of frustration. "Your arrogance will be your undoing."

The Knight-Commander paid no mind to these words, hissing softly. "Maker, your servant begs you for the strength to defeat this evil!" She emitted a feral growl, bending both knees sharply before launching herself high into the air.

"Andraste's ass…" Isabela gaped, watching with wonder and slight horror at the unnatural power of the Knight-Commander. The raving blonde arched back, flipping gracefully down through the atmosphere until landing on one of the Gallows' many barbed terraces with total aplomb. No human should be able to perform such an acrobatic feat without the innate aid of magic; that Meredith was able to achieve such a physical show with only the augmentation of lyrium was a testament to how deeply it had enthralled her.

The templar plunged her blade into the concrete once more, causing a cold, crimson flame to burst around her, spreading over the perimeter of the courtyard instantly. The fire licked along the concrete, ascending the length of every statue in the Gallows – most erected to portray the slaves Kirkwall had gleaned its moniker from, while a few others had been likened to the supposed "guardians" that freed them. The reverent, bronze bodies quaked ever-slightly, captured in the intense glow of the lyrium's power. However, as their foundations rocked uneasily, seeming to burn red, Isabela realized the glow was starting to explode outwards… from within.

Suddenly, the largest statue – the Gate Guardian – jerked. The head of the brilliant vestige twisted from its inertia, turning to face the Champion and her companions menacingly. The shining face showed no emotion as its legs stepped stiffly from their base, unbending arms creaking to better grip its massive lance; nonetheless, the pirate swore she could discern a tempestuous, predatory gleam within the face of the Guardian.

"Seriously," Hawke exclaimed, her voice thickly laden with apparent exasperation as Merrill squeaked behind them. "Everyone, get ready… this one won't go down easy!"

* * *

Large, bronze bodies littered the courtyard floor, once again rightfully motionless; however, more kept coming. Guardians, with their tremendous, statuesque spears and hulking feet; slaves, fallen from the stone pillars where they had been perched, heads held somberly in their hands in a perpetual lament. Sustained by the incredible force of lyrium, the malicious effigies attacked with relentless strength and precision. Unlike their human targets, they had no concept of lassitude, no need for rest or energy. Hawke, Isabela, and their companions, on the other hand, were exhausted, though they stood their ground admirably.

All the while, Meredith remained safe from immediate harm atop one of the Gallows' many stone verandas, controlling the statues like a grim puppet master. Her body writhed with the lyrium coursing through her – screaming through her mind, her cruel mouth, and even her veins. Sporadically, she would leap down from her makeshift pedestal to begin a brief, surprise assault on Hawke and her companions. The apostate and her friends tried not to be taken unawares, but they had enough on their hands dealing with the unyielding effigies – they weren't necessarily capable of looking over their shoulders every few seconds to see if the Knight-Commander was about to thrust her blade into their spines.

Aya and Isabela were busy combating another Gate Guardian when Meredith leapt from her terrace for a fourth time, directly behind the two women. The others were engaged in their own fighting when the templar made her appearance, either not noticing in time to issue a warning, or not noticing at all. Meredith knew this – she watched Hawke like a predator, eyeing their next meal unscrupulously.

The Knight-Commander grinned pitilessly, letting out a vicious snarl before jumping upwards and hugging her limbs to her body. Hawke turned just in time to see Meredith clutching her sword vigorously, pulsing with that crimson light.

"Move," the mage cried in Isabela's direction, making a weak attempt to dive out of the way. It was much too late to evade the crazed templar's attack, however. Meredith released her limbs, and with them, an explosive, crackling torrent of lyrium energy that caught Aya by her heels and hurled her in the direction of the nearest pillar. The second the wave grabbed hold of her, she felt as though her stomach had been hollowed out with a spoon, and her muscles contracted tightly beneath her skin. She ground her teeth and brought her arms up to wrap protectively around her skull, trying to brace for impact as best as she could.

The pirate, on the other hand, had reacted instantly to Aya's demand, hitting the ground before allowing the lyrium the chance to take her, and watched painfully as the apostate collided with a concrete pillar. "Hawke!" She pushed herself to her feet, and began darting to where her lover now lay crumpled, several yards away; however, Meredith was quicker. The Knight-Commander bounded towards the Champion in a red blur, augmented by the power of the lyrium.

"It's not enough that they make innocents suffer," Meredith cried, looming over Aya. She spun the crimson blade swiftly in her right hand before stabbing it once more into the cobblestones. Immediately, glowing red fractures split through the ground, and a flaming barrier raised itself around herself and the Champion.

"Shit," Isabela anxiously muttered, straining to see through the luminous blaze that separated her from Aya. "Aveline! Carver!"

"No… we must also have insult added to injury," the templar continued, oblivious to the expletives that Isabela cried out behind her. "Spare mages… give them freedom, and they will use it to tear down everything we hold dear. Don't you see? It cannot be allowed. I _will_ stop it." Meredith leaned down, gripping the half-conscious Aya by the leather chest-piece of her armor, and hissed in her face. "Do you hear me, Champion? _I will defeat you._"

Aya struggled to keep her eyes open wide and alert. She had protected her head from hitting the pillar, to some degree, but her right arm now burned ferociously in pain, and her head pounded. Everything seemed to sway around her, multiplying and blurring at the edges. Her conscious mind protested, crying out for her to close her eyes and submit herself to bleak, restful unconsciousness. Yet looking up into the face of the Knight-Commander, she knew she absolutely _needed_ to stay awake.

"Is that… what y-you think," she sneered, her voice wavering softly as she registered the oppressive force of the lyrium that radiated from Meredith. Much to her own sudden fear, Hawke found herself unable to resist when the templar closed a gauntleted hand around her throat, grinning darkly. Her own magic was quelled by the might of raw lyrium and subtle strangulation, sapped completely as her bones seemed to turn to jelly within her. Goosebumps rose over every inch of her skin, prickling hotly as though from fever, and she felt the sudden need to wretch. She wasn't sure if this was because she was weak and possibly concussed, or because she was likely to die in the next few moments.

"But of course, Champion. You're not putting up much of a fight." That cold hand tightened around her throat, and Aya sputtered helplessly. She attempted to form words, but any articulation whatsoever seemed to die in the back of her throat, now tightly constricted and coated with the bile that had risen from her hollow stomach. Instead, she collected what saliva she could from the inside of her mouth, and spat it feebly in the Knight-Commander's face. Meredith growled bestially, removing the hand from Hawke's throat and coiling it into a tight fist. She struck the apostate once in the side of the face, hard, and allowed her to drop heavily to the concrete with a thud.

If Aya thought her previous effort to stay conscious had been a struggle, then she was sorely mistaken. Bright spots erupted behind her eyes, and the edges of her vision were frayed with a damning blackness. She cried out in pain, the sound caught somewhere between a groan and a cough, as she grunted at the rattling ache in her right cheekbone, still trying to catch her breath. Precariously balancing the pain blossoming within her head and face, as well as the overwhelming pressure of lyrium bearing down on her body, she could see Meredith raising her blade overhead.

There was a moment of perplexing half-consciousness in which the instance she was living felt less like reality and more like a dream she was viewing from afar. She could see Meredith hoist that massive, crimson blade over her head, see herself lying beneath it, bruised and dispirited. She could see the cruel smile plastered over the Knight-Commander's face, and the dazed mask of bemusement that she herself wore. And seeing all these things… she felt a strange sense of calm and convenience wash over her, understanding just how easy it would be to give up.

Hawke _thought_ she had a choice: to lie there unflinching, to accept death at the hands of the templars. And just like that, an entire life of running, hiding, and fearing would cease to exist. Lives and loves that she had lost; cold comforts and bitter accomplishments she had never asked for; an overwhelming ache in the pit of her being that had kept her chained to this mortal world – they would all leave her. All she had to do was lay there and _let _it happen.

She considered this end. With Meredith's current ferocity, she knew the templar's blade would be most unforgiving. The Knight-Commander would ravage her midsection irreparably – her organs would be a lost cause. The lyrium and internal damage would consume her swiftly. There would be a vast measure of pain, yes, but only briefly. Compared to a lifetime of woes, it seemed entirely tolerable. It seemed _quick,_ which, given the life she had lived, was the most she could honestly ask for.

She thought about it for a few very long seconds. She knew Meredith was saying something to her – some unusual, parting soliloquy perhaps, but she couldn't hear a thing… until Isabela.

"Aya, MOVE!" That voice, so full of fear and desperation, pulled her back from the dream she had inhabited. The dulcet tones impelled a sort of instinct within her. All prior contemplation of death – of giving in – vanished in an instant, and was replaced with an unflappable need. She had made a promise to Isabela, had told her that she _would not_ let her down, and as necessary as her need for oxygen, water, and food, it was now necessary that she fulfill that promise.

She rolled stiffly out of the way, just as Meredith was about to drive the blade down into her midsection; however, Hawke was not quite quick enough. The sword landed a glancing blow upon the side of her thigh, slicing through her light leather armor with total ease.

When the lyrium dispersed, the feeling that coursed through the apostate was like nothing she had ever felt before. It was a stringent combination of throbbing agony, nausea, and bristling heat. It was as if the templar had injected fire directly into her bloodstream, starting at her pierced limb, and shooting through her body with incredible rapidity. Her skin suddenly felt like it was boiling, bubbling and lifting from the bone of its own accord. Utterly anguished, she cried out in pain, clutching at her leg with horribly shaking hands.

"So there is _some _fight left in you, hmm? Not for long, I can assure you, Champion." Meredith chuckled harshly, "If the lyrium doesn't take you in the next few moments, then my blade certainly will." Aya ignored the templar's taunts, crying out louder as her entire body began to writhe. Every muscle was ignited, filling up with heat like a balloon and threatening to burst completely. She would've been horrified if she weren't so busy trying to manage her own pain, and keep herself awake. The agony was so overwhelming that when she noticed Meredith raising her blade once again, for what would surely be a final blow, the sight was _almost_ welcome. Almost, except for those persistently sparkling amber eyes that flared in the back of her mind, swimming into her vision in fractured pieces. An impish ocher glint; full lips hitched at the corner as if devising a mischievous scheme; dusky fingers reaching out lightly to stroke her cheek in a heated graze.

Through the blaze of her torturous pain, these fragmented visions of Isabela soothed Aya like a healing balm. They may not be enough to aid her in evading another attack – they wouldn't be, she was certain of that – but somehow, amidst the incredible anguish, they had provoked a tiny smile to curl about the apostate's swollen lips. _If I go, I'll go happy. And I'll see her through it all. _It wasn't much, but for her, it was enough.

"Are you ready, Champion?" Hawke closed her eyes briefly, as if waiting to see her own life flash before her. When nothing came, she looked back up at the Knight-Commander with bleary vision, awaiting her own demise. "If you're lucky, death will be-" Shocked, Aya watched as her pirate barreled through the flames, tackling Meredith hard into the concrete. She could see Isabela wincing from the pain of the lyrium burn, and called out to her worriedly, her own voice strained.

"Isabela!" The rogue and the warrior scrambled as they hit the ground, both reaching for their skittering weapons in a mad dash. In spite of Meredith's augmented abilities, Isabela was still quicker, gripping her daggers and lunging over the templar in one swift movement. She twisted her back, allowing herself added leverage so that she could elbow the Knight-Commander once in the face. Beneath her, Meredith struggled, fumbling to grip Isabela's throat with her plated hands.

"Wicked whore," growled the templar as Isabela held one of her daggers under the woman's throat. The air of determination emanating from the pirate was so cold that Hawke swore she could feel it from where she laid, fingers scratching hopelessly at the cobblestones as she attempted to raise herself onto hands and knees. The effort was wasted however, and she instead slouched upon the ground with pain and anxiety gnawing at her insides. She still gripped her leg, now pulsing wildly with a rapid heartbeat.

"Shut up, bitch." Meredith howled at Isabela's words, feeling the blade press hard against her throat, and drawing blood from the pale, tender flesh. The flaming ring around them dissipated, and though blurry, Hawke could see the concerned faces of their friends rushing towards them.

Suddenly, the Knight-Commander's body lurched, glowing a luminous crimson, as she grabbed the rogue roughly by the throat. Then, seemingly without effort, she snarled, and tossed Isabela back across the courtyard like a ragdoll.

"No," Aya cried, forcing herself onto her knees with gritted teeth. Carver and Aveline were at her side instantly, each grabbing an elbow and lifting her to her feet. Her jaw clenched at the fiery pain of standing upon her wounded leg, even with the aid of her friends. "H-help… her!"

Both Carver and Aveline scrutinized Aya worriedly. They could see the thick sheen of sweat bracing her pallid skin, as well as the throbbing, swollen red mound that was now her thigh. They could even feel the short, violent tremors that would shoot through her body with each labored breath. Yet they could also feel the way in which she struggled to break from their grip and run towards her pirate.

"Anders, take her! We need to help Isabela!" As Carver and Aveline rushed forward, leaving Hawke leaning against Anders' supportive grip, she could feel the heat rising within her again. Isabela and Meredith were locked in a fervent clash of blades, the templar slowly but surely overpowering the pirate with the added force of raw lyrium. Isabela's stance was slightly off balance, her movements muddled from skidding painfully across the courtyard, and Aya feared she wouldn't be able to stand her ground much longer.

Almost immediately following that thought, Isabela stumbled backwards, recoiling from one of her opponents' momentous blows, and Meredith seized the moment of vulnerability. Turning on her heel, the templar struck the pirate in the stomach with the pommel of her sword. When Isabela doubled over, the Knight-Commander opened her palm wide, releasing a current of crackling energy that sent the Rivaini sailing back forcefully into the nearest column.

What happened next is still something of a mystery to Aya – a vicious lyrium haze that consumed her entirely. A flare of blind fury unlike anything she had ever known before wracked her body, causing her to break free from Anders' grip in a spasm. The gash on her thigh seemed to widen slightly, congealing about the edges and emitting a soft, crimson mist that began to churn around her body. She let out a feral cry, her form suddenly glowing, thrumming with pure mana. The last thing she saw before her vision became overwhelmed by the bright, red light was Isabela, slumped against a stone pillar, eyes wide in shock.

For a few moments, it was as if Aya was trapped within a shell, a mere husk of a person, infused with venomous power. Something inside of her snapped, some mixture of agonizing pain and tremendous exhilaration that coalesced into pure adrenaline. She could hardly see herself moving forward, hardly see herself gripping the Knight-Commander by the throat, but she could feel it. And when she spoke… the words were her own, she knew, for she had formed them in her own mind; but she spoke with a voice disjointed, and very unfamiliar to her.

"That's enough, Meredith! You're mad… corrupt!" When the Knight-Commander moved to grab her sword, Hawke stopped her with a hand to her forearm. She lifted the limb, clutching it like a steel vice, and allowed magic to swell into her fingertips, something she had previously been unable to do. With the lyrium in her bloodstream, not only had her mana returned, but it had been heightened. "You should learn to listen," Aya said simply, a quiet sneer in her voice as Meredith cried out from the magic burning into her arm. Then, she pulled back and launched the templar towards the stone steps, where she crashed and skidded against the concrete.

Hawke sauntered over quickly, the lyrium blazing around her in full, and stood before Meredith. Both hands outstretched, a cold, magical flame erupted in each hand, threatening the templar.

"I will… _not_… be defeated," Meredith barked through ragged, heaving breaths. She rose unsteadily to her feet, leaning on her pulsing blade for support as her body ignited to match the crackling glow now radiating from Aya. She pointed her blade quickly at the Champion, issuing a silent threat to which the blonde apostate did not even flinch. Scowling at her own paltry attempt at intimidation, the Knight-Commander lifted her blade high into the air, clutching it between trembling fists, and howled.

The templar summoned the entirety of lyrium-induced power remaining in her body, her sword humming loudly within her hands. Aya stood her ground, feeling the raw energy thumping within her own body, almost in tandem with that of the Knight-Commander's. However, as her adrenaline slowly dissipated, the apostate at least felt _some_ semblance of control; Meredith, on the other hand, appeared completely unhinged, shaking like a sapling caught in a mighty gale. If she didn't soon _ex_plode, Hawke knew the woman would have no other choice but to _im_plode.

"Maker! Aid your humble servant!" Drawing the lyrium sword close to her chest, the hum that discharged from the blade rapidly swelled into a shrill, frenetic pitch that surely could've shattered glass. For a moment, Hawke felt detached; but as the crimson power increased in a crescendo drone, she too felt an odd sensation burning within her. The flame had returned to her muscles, and with it, that sharp tremor gripped her limbs. She grunted as the lyrium song reached its peak, the power within her seeming to bale her intestines into a tight coil, and thrust them up into her throat. Her muscles contracted tautly, feeling as though they might snap.

For a brief moment when the lyrium reached its zenith, there was total silence, save for the heavy panting of both Hawke and Meredith. Then, with an ear-piercing shriek, the sword exploded in the templar's hands, splintering into a thousand tiny, red pieces. Instantaneously, Aya felt her tightly wound muscles snap like a rubber band, the energy plummeting into her stomach as she was thrown to the ground, grasping her leg painfully. Meredith wailed like a banshee, her body fracturing crimson as the light seeped through every crack in her frame. She fell to her knees, enveloped by the tremendous heat that simultaneously coursed through Aya; however, the fire in the Knight-Commander's blood had amplified ten-fold.

It was as if Meredith had been doused in molten lava. Her whole body ignited and solidified within the space of a moment, turning into a smoking, ashy stone. A few pieces of her body actually cracked, falling off and turning into obsidian dust. The ash instantly latched onto the light breeze surrounding them, and faded into the atmosphere along with the dying tremolo of Meredith's blaring screech.

And just like that, there was silence. A few sounds remained: sizzling heat rising from Meredith's smoking husk; smoldering red flames that expired around them; screams ricocheting off into the distance; and lastly, but most concerning, Hawke, whimpering and wheezing upon the ground. At first, they were all so shocked by Meredith's sudden demise, that they didn't even notice Aya's fragile condition. But then, Isabela called out to her lover, running towards the apostate and skidding to her knees beside her.

"Aya?" She pulled the woman into her lap, clutching her face in between her hands in an attempt to direct Hawke's vision. Abruptly, she looked up at the healer and fiercely demanded his attention. "Anders, get over here!" Hawke stared dazedly into the Rivaini's face, struggling to latch onto those amber orbs of hers. Unfortunately, shuddering contractions gripped her muscles, and her limbs were quivering so badly it made her head spin. Still, through the pain and shaking, she somehow managed to force a small smile onto her lips.

"Aya," Isabela queried again, pushing a few sweaty, errant strands of blonde hair from the apostate's face. The pirate felt her own hand tremble just slightly when she noticed the heat blazing under Hawke's pale skin. Anders settled down beside them, and with the help of Carver and Aveline, tore the leather armor from her thigh. The younger Hawke stole worried glances in his sister's direction every few seconds, looking more vulnerable than Isabela had ever seen him. All their companions were looking absolutely fearful, if truth be told.

Aya kept her wavering gaze on Isabela though, trying to maintain consciousness. The rogue leaned in close, pressing her lips against Hawke's temple, and whispered. "How are you doing?"

"T-terrific. I don't know… why everyone's making… such a fuss." Isabela grinned nervously, biting back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. The plaintive struggle in the mage's voice was a testament to just how badly she was lying. Nonetheless, she reached up a clammy, shaking hand to brush her fingertips lightly over the pirate's cheek. That small gesture made Isabela feel as if her face was on fire, too. "Are you… okay?"

This one simple question caused a stab of pain to tear briefly through Isabela's gut. Even now, as Hawke possibly lay… dying, she still felt the need to voice her worry for the pirate. That kind of unconditional concern was the exact thing that had caused Isabela to fall in love, and though it frightened the hell out of her, it made her feel as if she was falling all over again. Now, when she could potentially _lose_ Aya. And with that thought, a tear actually did slide down her cheek, only to be caught by Hawke's trembling thumb. A small laugh escaped her lips, caught on an aching sob, and the smile suddenly vanished from the apostate's face.

The templars began to flood into the courtyard now, trepidation abounding as they caught sight of their charred Knight-Commander. And with them, the added worry of _consequences_ suddenly bore down on the pirate's shoulders. In an attempt to shield Hawke from this burden, she shifted their position on the ground, placing a hand on the mage's temple to blind her peripheral.

"Maker, Hawke," Anders breathed. Isabela looked over to see him peering anxiously into the gaping wound. The blood had coagulated around the edges, all pink and inflamed, and the pirate had to wince. Aya, too, cringed slightly and groaned as the healer prodded the gash.

"Will you be able to heal it," Isabela asked nervously, feeling the tips of Hawke's fingers pressed into her cheek.

"He will," the apostate answered, bringing the rogue's gaze back down to her face. "Don't-" She hissed through clenched teeth as Aveline began to tie her scarf around the wound.

"I will do _everything_ that I can," Anders replied resolutely. "But we have to get her away from here. _Now._" Isabela nodded, and Carver was suddenly at her side, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"You're bruised, Isabela. Allow me to carry my sister, please." The pirate wanted to protest, but found herself unable to when she looked into the young man's pleading blue eyes. Taking his sister from this place was apparently not something he wanted to do; rather it was something he _needed_ to do.

"Okay, just… be careful." The younger Hawke scooped Aya into his arms as gently as possible, and cradled her as though she was made of glass. For a few seconds, he simply stared into her face – the face of the last living family member he had – before holding her head in his large, calloused hand and placing a kiss upon her forehead. He whispered something in her ear then, something Isabela could not hear, and the apostate smiled. She nodded her head slightly, allowing her eyes to finally drift closed.

They turned to walk away, ignoring the templars, when a bewildered Cullen weakly attempted to stop them.

"H-hey… where do you think you're going?" Each companion seemed to turn towards him at the same time, wearing the same vehement scowl upon their faces. However, it was Aveline who spoke up, most diplomatically.

"We are leaving the Gallows, so that we may _attempt_ to heal this city's Champion." When Cullen looked as though he was about to object, the Guard-Captain stepped forward, pressing on. "You know, the woman who has selflessly sacrificed herself for the people of Kirkwall for the past seven years. The woman who has saved this city from utter ruin on several occasions – the most recent occasion being tonight, when she stopped your lyrium-crazed Knight-Commander from tearing apart the circle and _your own order_ simply to achieve vengeance." She took pause, waiting for Cullen to respond – he said nothing. "I need not say anything more, correct?" Stunned, the man nodded. "Thank you, Knight-Captain."

They walked away then, free from the templars scrutiny – at least until Hawke was healed. _If_ she was healed, Aveline thought fearfully.

"Thanks, Big Girl," Isabela muttered in the warrior's direction, never taking her eyes off of Aya. Aveline merely shook her head.

"I'd rather forego all thanks until Hawke is well and safe. C'mon," she waved them forward, quickening her stride, "let's get a move on, Carver. We've no time to waste."

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**So, after a bit of research on the DA wiki, I found out that pure lyrium is pretty much to mages what Kryptonite is to Kryptonians. Interesting. And of course, I had to explore that in this final scene. Hope it was enjoyable.**

And please, keep on reviewing!


	13. Chapter 13

**Big delay on this one... I do apologize. I'm a bad author. As usual though, my muse came in the form of beautiful music. So much appreciation for the lovely melodies of Bon Iver - inspired me a million percent on this chapter! I don't name my chapters, but if I did, this one would be "Flume" (after the song, of course).**

Anyways, this is the last chapter. It was supposed to be short... but this whole story was also supposed to be a one shot, originally. So, plenty of lawlz there.

But huge, huge thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed/favorited this story. I appreciate it so very much, and all your reviews and continued readership certainly brought me a lot of smiles. Now that the story is over, I will try my best to reply to your reviews (I've been lagging on that - sorry).

So, please, enjoy!

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Isabela had been many things over the course of her life.

At one time, she had been a child. For many, it was hard to imagine her – a depraved, voluptuous temptress – as a sweet, gawky young girl; but that is what she had been, for a brief, and very precious fragment of her life.

She was a prize among other children, not so much for her appearance, but for her personality. She had been lovely, yes, but beauty was the singular stock of the Rivaini people – sun-kissed skin; deep ocher eyes, whose hues ranged from rich honey to deep, dark chocolate; pleasant curves; lush ebony hair – these were features possessed by an entire ethnicity. Among the rugged and sometimes bland characteristics of, say… Free Marchers, she was exotic; however, among her own people, her face was but one of many. It was her personality that had set her apart, that she had relied upon to win the hearts of all who offered them (and even some who didn't).

She could remember the ways in which the other children of her village would flock to her. Children of all genders and ages, some even a few years older than her, were content to follow Isabela no matter her scheme. They reveled in her games, the imaginative scenarios she would concoct for them, the effervescent pulse of amusement and laughter that she exuded like heat from a flame. She was a joy – purely happy, unadulterated. She was _innocent._

The Hanged Man's patrons would scoff at the thought. _"Isabela? Innocent? No. I don't think so." _She was a harlot now and always had been. Or, at least, that is what they would say. And one could argue that, given the natural lifecycle of all beings, she _had_ been a child once, she _had_ been innocent; but wouldn't that shatter the illusion? Isabela was notorious for her sex-appeal, her brash words, her thieving ways – the lechers and paupers and drunks of the Hanged Man liked her that way. To think she had once been a _girl_ – naïve, sweet, compassionate… well, that was just wrong.

It was true though: she _had_ been naïve and sweet, for a time. Much like Merrill was, or the way Aya could sometimes be, when she wasn't overwhelmed in the perilous throes of Kirkwall's never-ending tragedy. She had helped her mother cook dinner and baked pies for her father; she had cried when she'd lost her most favorite doll. And when given her first kiss, on the _cheek_, she'd been so nervous and oblivious that her face had burned crimson the entire night. She'd been a good girl.

But then her mother had sold her as a _woman_. Only recently had her feminine features just fully developed, fleshing into supple, virginal curves under the fabric of her dresses, when the exchange had taken place. True, she bore the full figure of a woman, but she had not a clue what she was meant to do with it. She'd suddenly felt so top-heavy most of the time, she couldn't even keep her posture straight. Regardless, for a handful of sovereigns and a goat – a bloody, stinking, dumb goat – her mother had sold her to man. A lustful, greedy man who bought her, not so much for a wife, but a trophy.

Amidst the heartbreak of that bitter betrayal, and the stinging resentment she felt for both her mother and her new husband, Isabela could remember wishing, quite simply, that she'd had more time. More time to run barefoot through her village with a throng of gleeful followers in tow, playing tag or planning a picnic down by the riverside. More time to understand what it meant to be a wife, to fall in love, to please her husband. But it seemed time was merely a luxury, a thing of the past, and she had very little of it. For this reason, she felt like she never truly became a wife; she never loved the man who owned her; she hardly even knew how to please him properly. None of this mattered though. Her husband had a plaything; he loved himself; his desires were easily sated, though always present – mocking.

During their marriage, she was made to feel inferior. She was made to feel sexy, as well, made into a _thing_ other men would ogle and desire with envy, but there was little else she was told she could be. Self-worth, too, became a thing of the past. For she, a woman, was worth only what her husband allowed her to be.

The only good thing that ever came from her tenuous marriage was her love of sailing. Isabela's husband, being the rich and reputable man that he was, had owned a ship. And unlike most spoiled noblemen, he actually knew how to use it. His knowledge of sailing far exceeded his meager intelligence, and despite her hatred for him, the would-be pirate was always secretly impressed by his know-how. It shouldn't have truly surprised her though – other than sex, food, liquor, and _himself,_ there was nothing her husband loved more than sailing.

Because Isabela was his trophy, her husband thought it imperative that she, too, learn how to sail. Lucky for him, she was a natural. The first time she stepped foot on his grand vessel and felt the harmonious rhythm of the sea cradle her body, she found that she also had an innate passion for sailing. So, when he deigned to school her in the ways of seafaring, she absorbed his lessons diligently, with the utmost enthusiasm.

After the brute met his timely passing (timely _murder_, rather), Isabela was free to be anything she so desired. Of course, she was obliged to play the part of the grieving widow for a short time, just to keep up appearances; but as soon as she'd paid her dues, she took up residence full time upon her late husband's ship, began a torrid affair with a dashing assassin, and decided that for the sake of rekindling her own lust for life, she would become a pirate. A female pirate _captain,_ of all things. When she'd shared this idea with her then lover, he'd quirked a curious brow at her, eyes gleaming. He then gave her a once over, smirked licentiously, and said, _"My dear, I do believe you would make a _formidable _pirate." _

In order to conform to the vision of _"Isabela, infamous pirate queen!"_ that she had formed in her head, the young woman was moved to make a few changes in her life. Her lover had versed her in the fine, fantastic art of seduction; he opened her eyes to the sexual appetite she'd been forced to repress since her adolescence, encouraging her to try on new lovers as she might try on different hats, just to _"see what suited her."_ She found that _a lot_ of things suited her, when it came to sex. In fact, she found that sex itself was something that she not only enjoyed, but craved and adored.

And with one sweet vice came another: good ol' alcohol. She learned quickly how to hold her liquor as well as any man – better even. This exorbitant thirst, it seemed, was necessary. Pirates liked to drink, and the amount one could imbibe was often a sign of strength, a means of garnering respect. Considering the pirating world was heavily dominated by males, Isabela had to learn how to drink _a lot_. She spent many years building up that incredible tolerance that would characterize her bar-room infamy later in life. Eventually, she was able to drink her entire crew under the table, gaining both their respect and complete awe.

She'd managed almost entirely to shed the skin of her previous life; however, she found that some aspects of it would continue to haunt her well into her adult years. Even after establishing herself as the captain of the _Siren's Call_, gathering a crew of loyal and devoted men and women, and yes, perhaps, falling in love with a suave and thrilling man, she found she still felt the pangs of a broken heart. What bothered her most about this, was that this heart – cracked and aching – no longer felt like her own. It belonged to a girl who had loved life ardently, with care and zeal, only to have it turn around and slap her in the face. It belonged to a young lady who had been sold by her mother like a piece of meat, to a filthy, berating man. It belonged to a woman who had longed to escape, but weakly, could not do it on her own. It belonged to her former self, the Isabela she had forsaken.

When her lover had foolishly asked for her hand, the pirate rejected him. There were several reasons. Among them: an unwillingness to again be tied down, a fear of losing the life she had earned for herself, and a discomfort at placing herself into a role that she had played in a former life. But perhaps the most prominent of all these reasons was, quite simply, that her heart was still broken. She didn't know much about romantic love, but she did know that you couldn't give someone a husk – cracked fragments like puzzle pieces – and tell them you were giving them your heart. It wasn't right – it would end in their own heart becoming just as broken.

She had been a child. She had been a trophy (a captive). She had been a pirate – a seductress, a harlot, a drinker. She had been a heartbreaker.

And now… she was nothing, if not a fool.

She'd spent years and years crafting the persona of Captain Isabela. She'd run so far from the life that she had once lived, both on foot and by sea, and with that, she had been content. Happy, exhilarated, and humored, even, to shake off the trappings of her own broken heart, of her homeland, of the bitter emotions she had swallowed, as if shaking raindrops from her skin. Yet, in spite of all this contentment, there was still this hollow, throbbing ache within her chest; remote, but looming over her like the memories of her youth.

The rogue had decided that the best way to ignore this pain entirely, was to avoid the thing that had caused it – love – at all costs. For, if she had never loved her father so very much, his death would never have devastated her. If she had never loved her mother, then the woman could never have broken her heart. If she had never loved – _fallen in love with_ – that damn elf, she never could have broken _his_ heart, thus bearing the guilt and shame in the process. Love was a plague, she'd decided. It could, perhaps, cause her happiness and pleasure, but in the end, it would ultimately cause her pain. Nothing more, nothing less.

Of course, everything changed when she'd met Aya Hawke. In a way, she felt that she had _allowed_ everything to change. It started when she'd decided to stay in Kirkwall.

From her first week of staying in the Hanged Man, she'd heard rumblings around Lowtown about Aya – a powerful apostate, ex-smuggler, and makeshift savior of Ferelden refugees attempting to build new lives in the City of Chains. These tall tales had piqued her interest instantly. Varric, her first and most favorite drinking buddy, had some very interesting things to say about her. He'd described her as strong, efficient, _fun_, and good-looking.

After Haydar was killed, Isabela should have left. Instead, she chose to stick around for a while, to see what kind of trouble and excitement this Aya Hawke could get her into. If nothing else, the woman had promised her adventure and coin; but in her bright eyes, attractive form, and sometimes mischievous smirk, Isabela had seen a more lascivious prospect, as well. The mage could become a terrific conquest in time, a wonderful source of stress relief.

They spent years playing a very amusing game of cat and mouse with each other. However, the thing that shocked and delighted Isabela, was that she, the famed pirate queen, was not always the cat. Aya, with her innocent personality; kind, childish smile; and unending compassion, was far more impish than she appeared. If she hadn't been, the rogue probably wouldn't have stuck around, wouldn't have played their silly game of seduction for as long as she did – the moral maintenance and saving kittens from trees, _without_ the sexual teasing, would've bored her to tears. But she found all the righteous bull was entirely tolerable when they would retire to the Hanged Man every night to drink and laugh and play cards.

The turning point, the point of no return, came when they'd had sex for the first time. Admittedly, Isabela was somewhat frustrated, and definitely surprised, that it had taken her so long to get Aya into bed; however, it made the satisfaction of finally doing so all that much greater. She knew the apostate was willing – had been for a long time – but in spite of her confident veneer and playful banter, there was a nervousness about Hawke whenever faced with the opportunity.

When the pirate showed up at the Hawke estate that late evening – what was it, four years ago now? – the usual flirtations ensued. However, this advance was different, and they both knew it. Isabela had never been so forthcoming as to show up at the mage's estate before, to back her into a corner as she had. Aya stood her ground though, with an equally enticing grin, calling the Rivaini woman's bluff with forced aplomb. Then, Isabela truly had her with her back against the wall, breath hot against the blonde's earlobe, fingers teasing the neckline of her fine, noble's robe. Hawke's attempts at maintaining her poise were decent; but when she felt the other woman's lips brush against her ear, a shiver coursed noticeably through her body, and her words hitched in her throat. Isabela could remember thinking, _That's it, I've got her now._ She smiled as the goosebumps rose along Aya's skin, and their lips collided in a fiery crash. She took the apostate's hand in her own then, lacing their fingers and dragging her up the steps towards Hawke's bedroom.

The tables would turn though, gradually, throughout the remainder of this passionate and very satisfying encounter. There were things about Aya, about the way she'd handled Isabela that night, the way she'd acted, that had so disarmed the rogue (though she wouldn't admit it – not then, at least). There came a point, after they'd clambered into the bedroom, a tangle of limbs and teeth and tongues, after they'd disrobed, when Hawke had managed to get on top of Isabela. And as she sat there that first time with the pirate lying naked beneath her, straddling the woman's hips and breathing raggedly, Aya hesitated, for just a moment.

For some reason, some odd, _odd_ reason, when Isabela looked into the blonde's stunning emerald eyes and saw that brief flicker of insecurity pass through them, felt the short quiver in her fingertips, she too hesitated. Something about being under that gaze made her feel more naked than she'd ever been (and she'd been _very_ naked on _very_ many occasions). Something about being with Hawke made her feel momentarily vulnerable. Truth be told, she hadn't felt vulnerable like that in years.

Nonetheless, she recovered quickly, regaining her usual composure and regarding the well of heat pooling in the pit of her stomach with voracious hunger.

"_You've done this before, haven't you,"_ Isabela had asked gently, her voice settling into a low purr. Hawke nodded a little too vigorously in response, and in the firelight, the pirate saw the blush rising to her cheeks. _"Have you been with a woman before?"_

"_Yes," _Aya replied, clearing her throat. _"It's just… been a while. And I haven't had many… uhm, lovers-"_ Normally, the pirate may have chuckled good-naturedly at the mage; but, as she was already aware of the terrible blush flaming in the other's cheeks, she instead drew her finger over the length of Aya's jaw and smiled. She placed her calloused hands over Aya's, guiding them across her own body. The apostate responded enthusiastically, much to Isabela's enjoyment.

"_Don't worry, sweet thing. I'm sure you'll do just fine."_

Hawke _did_ do just fine that night – better than fine, actually. The mage was more adept than she gave herself credit for; either that, or she was a very quick study. And though their first encounter didn't necessarily include anything wild or exceptionally… "creative," it definitely unsettled Isabela. That one night roused an array of pleasantly frightening emotions in her stomach that she'd fought many years to avoid.

She never should have slept with Aya again after that one night. She could remember, as she dressed, asking the mage if she had any intention of bringing feelings into their strictly physical relationship. Hawke's decidedly ambiguous reply, mixed with her too-compassionate smile and the shy gleam in her green eyes, was all the answer the pirate truly needed. She should've walked out the door after that, but instead allowed the woman to question her, to probe beneath the surface. She became a fool.

There were a lot of things Isabela should have done, or could have done, to prevent herself from falling in love. In the end, it didn't really matter what those things were – they happened, and she allowed them to – but she knew it started on that night. From that encounter on, the long, horribly romantic process began. She was falling, and the harder she fought against it, the more ensnared by Aya Hawke she became.

When looking back on how it happened, she couldn't really pinpoint an exact moment when she knew the truth. She was sure that for someone like Aya – a hopeless romantic – there was one instance, in total clarity and ardor, that she knew she was in love. But for Isabela, there wasn't _one_ instance or moment; it was the culmination of many, many moments. A potent and poignant combination of Aya's emerald eyes and deep dimples; laughter and mischief they'd shared together; the constant adrenaline of a fight, in which they always had each other's backs. Ultimately, it was all the little things that added up to become one big thing – one _very _big thing.

She almost escaped it after the Qunari incident – she'd had the chance to. And for three years, she seemed very free; but in truth, she was still so enthralled by Hawke during those three years that she felt caged, too. Coming back was probably the most selfish thing she could've done, but up until just a few nights ago, it also felt like the greatest decision she'd ever made. Because, after some time, she realized her greatest freedom was to stand by Aya's side, to aid her and protect her and, yes, love her.

And Maker, how she hated to admit all of this – how she hated to feel like such a fool; but what else was she to do now? These tired ruminations made her feel ill; however, they proved to be the only means of occupying her worried mind.

She was standing upon the quarterdeck, located over top the captain's cabin of her currently idle ship. It was dawn now, the day breaking over the horizon in a pastoral mixture of lavenders and blues and pinks as soft and fleshy as a newborn babe's skin. The subtle pall blanketed the sky protectively, drifting lazily beneath the heavens, dotted with the gently blooming swell of cottony clouds. Below, the topsails of a dozen other ships bent with the morning breeze, their many alabaster folds billowing audibly, making the ships appear as though they were yawning in their moors. The pirate could hear them swaying, the slight undulation of the sea smacking against the hulls in a constant, sleepy rhythm. All in all, it was a beautiful sight, a serene melody, and from it, she gleaned no comfort whatsoever.

Leaning her elbows over the railing, she allowed her head to hang with a sigh. She gazed down into the blue-green murkiness of Kirkwall's shores, peering into their depths as if searching for an answer. However, she knew there was none to be found – not there at least. Her one true answer was lying unconscious in the captain's cabin right now, fever broken, breathing constantly shallow, fighting to wake up. As the image drifted into her mind, Isabela clenched both her eyes and jaw, running a hand roughly through her dark hair. It had been a long night.

Their passage from the Gallows to the Kirkwall docks the previous evening had been the longest boat ride Isabela had ever had to endure. The small skiff had barely been large enough to seat them all, let alone provide enough room for Hawke to lie down in. They'd made the room though, stretching the injured woman delicately across their laps – her head resting upon Isabela's knees, while her wounded thigh lay with the healer. In that time, Aya had broken out in a blistering fever, oscillating between painful, half-conscious moans and cold shakes as Anders worked tirelessly. By the time they reached the docks, the healer appeared so consternated that he demanded they stow away in the nearest shelter – Isabela's ship.

Anders did everything he could for Hawke. He healed her broken arm, the fracture in her skull, sealed the wound in her leg – such reparations had been fairly easy. The difficulty had come when he'd attempted to siphon the lyrium from her bloodstream. Small bits of the mineral had coagulated within her veins, forming tiny clumps that were easily removed with the aid of magic; however, lyrium wasn't necessarily a poison, no matter its effects on mages or crazed Knight-Commanders. Once inside of Aya's bloodstream, the lyrium did not separate like oil from water. In fact, much of it actually _fused_ with her blood, becoming indissoluble.

There came a point when the healer simply could not remove anymore of the mineral. What remained inseparable would become a part of Aya; it would dissolve or pass naturally through her system as blood typically does. Otherwise, the lyrium would bind magically to her, remaining with her for the rest of her life, no matter how long or short it might be. At this time, he placed a hand over her forehead, regarding her raging fever with fear and distaste, and morosely said, _"I've done everything I can. It's all up to her now." _

Isabela stayed with her all night long. They lay together in her bed – well, _their_ bed, technically, or at least it would be once they set sail – Aya tossing, turning, groaning for hours while the pirate held onto her tightly, every so often dabbing a damp cloth over her clammy skin. The others stayed on the ship, sitting outside the captain's cabin or retiring to the empty crew's quarters for a few hours of restless sleep. Periodically, they would enter the cabin, just to see if there had been any change in Aya's condition. When Isabela would reply that, no, there hadn't been, they would walk cautiously over to the bedside and give the apostate's hand a squeeze, perhaps brushing a few sweat-matted strands of hair from her face.

She cried in her sleep a few times – a painful sight for the already exhausted and frightened Isabela – stricken with terrible fever dreams. The pirate could only guess at what the mage saw in her sleep, for the woman was impossible to wake up, and mumbled almost incoherently. A few times, Isabela clearly heard Hawke call out her name; however, she mostly called out for her mother, father, and sister.

It seemed all the pirate could really do was lie there watching. The complete hopelessness of this fact made her sick to her stomach, burning with subdued anger. She was not a woman of patience, a woman of sitting idly by and waiting; on the contrary, she was a woman of action. Sitting still only succeeded in making her skin crawl, in making her feel useless and pathetic, or otherwise very alone – trapped – with the anxieties she was normally so good at ignoring. Between wiping the sweat from Aya's heated body and speaking pointless words received by slumbering ears, there was nothing for her to do but _think._

Over the course of that night, she mulled over thoughts that made her despise herself. Where would she go if she didn't have Hawke by her side? What would she do with herself then? Would she find new lovers? With trembling fingers, she traced the lines of the apostate's face – shapely cheekbones; slender nose; plump, innocent lips. She memorized the color of her hair, the softness of her skin and eyelashes against her palm, the way the moonlight clung to her frame through the cabin window, silhouetting the sweet curves of her body in ghostly illumination. She couldn't see Hawke's eyes then – they were tightly closed – but if they never opened again, she knew she would always remember the deep, penetrating emeralds they concealed. Those eyes were likely to haunt her for the rest of her life. She _hated_ these thoughts, though admitted the preparation was necessary.

Isabela guessed it was about six in the morning when Aya unleashed a sudden, anguished cry, gripping her wounded thigh unconsciously. Previously on her back, she rolled onto her side, away from the pirate, and curled herself into the fetal position. She mumbled words that her lover couldn't decipher – _"Maker… mother…"_ – was it some sort of prayer? Some sort of plea? Then, as quickly as the spasm occurred, it died away, Hawke's muscles loosening in the process. Isabela called out to the woman softly, rolling her onto her back once again. The apostate's breath came slower now, more labored, but when the pirate placed a hand over her previously sweltering forehead and cheeks, heat had been replaced with cold, clammy sweat – a sure sign that the fever had broken.

The pirate's relief was palpable, though somewhat feeble. She'd called out Hawke's name twice more, with added force and fervency, expecting that with her fever broken, the mage could finally wake from her dreadful slumber. However, the Champion did _not_ wake; in fact, she barely even stirred as her lover called out to her, shaking her gently. Isabela, not realizing she'd been holding her breath, exhaled loudly in her rapidly growing frustration, and practically jumped from the bed. She paced the floor, cursing to herself and combating a sudden and uncharacteristically strong urge to burst into tears. This urge, in itself, to do something she so despised, only frustrated her more. In the end, she opted to drive a white-knuckled fist into the wall.

Perhaps hearing the audible _thump_ of Isabela's anger from where she'd been stationed outside of the cabin, Aveline strode in immediately, eyes wide and concerned.

"_What's going on,"_ the Guard Captain asked. The pirate let out a caustic, shaky laugh as she turned her gaze to meet Aveline's.

"_Absolutely nothing – that's what. Her bloody fever has broken, but she won't even move!"_ The warrior walked worriedly over to the bed and kneeled, placing her palm over the mage's forehead. Once again, the apostate did not stir from the contact, causing Aveline's lips to pull into a tight frown. She moved her hand to clutch Aya's in her own, flinching from the sudden change in her body temperature.

"_C'mon, Hawke…"_

"_She's stronger than this," _Isabela ranted, clutching fistfuls of hair at either side of her head as she paced, eyes darting nervously about. _"She's a damn _Champion. _She fought an Arishok, insane blood mages… she took a _dagger_ in her gut and survived!"_ Aveline turned back to watch Isabela, her lips pursing tighter – her friend had fought too much over the past seven years. _"And now this fucking lyrium is going to… kill her?" _

The stalwart Guard-Captain, always composed, always strong, winced at the rogue's words. The thought of Hawke – the woman who had consoled her as a near stranger after Wesley's death, who had helped her gain entrance into Kirkwall, who had urged her to join the city guard, who had helped her find love again, who she had come to love as the sister she had never had (and deep down, always wanted) – the thought of that woman dying chilled her to the bone. However, it wasn't just the thought that had made her wince – it was the way Isabela had said it, as well.

It was no secret that Aveline had always been heavily opposed to the relationship between Aya and the pirate. She'd felt, for the longest time, that it could only end in the breaking of Hawke's heart, something that, after the deaths of Bethany and Leandra, she didn't think the apostate could weather. And even though Aya _always_ took her opinions into consideration, always listened to her, and perhaps even looked up to her with the adoration of a younger sibling, she just could not seem to heed her words on Isabela.

Aveline had supported their relationship as best she could, which was no easy task, considering how thoroughly she objected to it. Her support came only as a favor to Hawke though – the woman had done so much for her over the years, she couldn't bring herself to condemn the mage outright for that one foolish decision. And in the beginning, Isabela had only confirmed the Guard Captain's suspicions. However, Aveline would grudgingly admit that she _did_ see a change in Isabela over time.

The rogue was different when she thought the others weren't looking. They'd be walking along the Wounded Coast or patrolling Lowtown, and she'd grip Hawke's wrist lightly, whispering into her ear with a subtle smile. Aveline generally assumed she was saying something particularly licentious, as was typical of their pirate whore, but regardless, it usually made Aya laugh. And when Aya laughed, or even just grinned brightly at Isabela's filthy remarks, the Guard Captain realized a certain distinct glimmer would pass through the Rivaini's amber eyes. This unabashed gleam was filled with a very innocent, almost selfless kind of mirth that Aveline sometimes (_some_times) swore held a measure of vulnerability, as if to see that smile dashed, or filled with reprove, would harm not only Isabela's pride, but her joy, too.

Of course, when people _were_ looking, Isabela acted as her usual brash and aloof self. The only time she showed her companions obvious signs of her affection towards Hawke were when she truly worried for her wellbeing, which, considering the kind of business the Champion dabbled in, occurred on a weekly basis. Also, there had been an incident at the Hanged Man where the pirate had knocked out a nobleman who'd tried to cop a feel on Aya, thus starting a bar-wide brawl. But to this day, she adamantly denied she'd done so to _"protect Hawke's honor or some such nonsense,"_ as she so defiantly put it.

Aveline caught glimpses of the truth though, much to Isabela's dismay. However, over time, it seemed the pirate had resigned herself to the fact that loving Hawke was, _perhaps,_ not quite as awful as she'd originally thought, and that by embracing it, romance would not automatically soften her. In fact, she was now almost indifferent to the others' knowing about them, or seeing bits and pieces of the Isabela that was meant only for Hawke.

But to see her now – composure waning; cool, aloof disposition frenzied; voice cracking over the very mention of death, something they were all so acquainted with – Aveline had not expected to be shown. Isabela had become more open to the idea of love and tenderness over the past several months, yes, but she had never allowed it to interfere with her strong, independent "pirate queen" image. Her current vestige, fragile with anxiety and the idea of heartbreak, made Aveline uncomfortable. Because, for as much shit as they gave each other, and for as often as the guardswoman had chided Isabela for being such a harlot, she had always somewhat (secretly) admired the pirate for her strength. The Guard Captain truly hated to see her appear so… breakable.

And the way Isabela kept looking back at Hawke – her eyes plagued with worry and caution, as if within the space of each glance she were preparing for a death she so abhorred – it felt too familiar to Aveline. She could remember fleeing Ferelden, remember the moment she realized Wesley had been tainted. She could remember the grossly unrelenting implication of this realization – _death_ – and the furious hopelessness that accompanied it. Fragments of this memory now seemed to ghost similarly over Isabela's features, all too reminiscent. It made her sympathize with the woman in a way she never had before.

Having her own worries to contend with, this familiar anxiety became too much for the warrior. With a sigh, she'd left Hawke's side, striding purposefully towards Isabela and clutching her by the shoulders. The pirate halted immediately, annoyance flitting over her features as a cutting remark readied itself at the tip of her tongue. However, she was not met with the stern reproach she was so accustomed to receiving from Aveline. In its place was the firm compassion and softness she often reserved for Aya, or those she cared most for. Because of this, Isabela actually _listened._

"_Isabela, it won't do any good to have yourself so worked up,"_ she'd reminded the Rivaini. _"Look, you haven't left this cabin since we arrived here, and it's been a _very_ long night. Hawke's fever has broken. Awake or not, I think she's okay for now." _Isabela looked ready to disagree, and Aveline cut her off insistently. _"Okay enough that you can go out on deck and get yourself some fresh air. I won't make you stay out there long – I won't _make_ you do anything. But I think it would be a good idea for _you_ to clear your head a bit."_

Isabela stared blankly at the guardswoman for a moment before a subtle smirk tugged at the corner of her lip. _"I hate to admit that you're right, Big Girl, but I suppose I must concede…" _The smile died on her lips as she turned to spare one last glance in Hawke's direction. _"I might need a half hour or so. But if _anything_ changes, you call me back in. Alright?"_

"_Of course."_

"_Good,"_ Isabela nodded, suddenly gripping the warrior awkwardly by her shoulders. _"And, uhm… thanks."_ Aveline's only response was a small, understanding smile, something the pirate was grateful for.

However, the half hour of fresh air and over-thinking Isabela had allotted to herself was now cut short by Merrill's squeaking voice. "Isabela," the elf called, breaking the rogue's melancholic ruminations while wearing a frazzled mixture of worry and relief. The sight of those bright, mossy eyes so full of fervent anticipation caused Isabela's heart rate to quicken tremendously. "Hawke is awake!"

Isabela bounded across the deck, meeting Merrill halfway and grasping her shoulders questioningly. "You're sure? She's not just talking in her sleep?"

"We're sure," Merrill reassured her excitedly, following her dear friend as she made a break for the cabin door. Isabela's heart was now thrumming most prominently within her chest, filled with renewed hope and ardor. As she reached to push open the door, however, her hand hesitated for a split second. The crushing prospect of loss and disappointment still loomed heavily over Aya's condition, regardless of her consciousness (or lack thereof). Nonetheless, the idea of those stunning emeralds now open and alert truly galvanized Isabela, and she burst through the entryway without a second thought.

She arrived to see most of their companions had assembled around the bed, looking over the Champion with clear nervousness. And at the center of this little gathering, Aya was attempting to hitch herself upon her elbows, her face contorted in a painful grimace. This expression alone was enough to make Isabela's heart want to burst with relief; however, as Hawke ignored the warnings of Aveline and Carver, pushing her trembling, exhausted body up from sweat-matted sheets, the pirate was dismayed.

"Going somewhere," she heard herself ask with feigned amusement, traces of reprove clipping the edges of her tone. Hawke looked up to meet her gaze with wide, glassy eyes and a clenched jaw. That one look nearly made the pirate stop dead in her tracks; however, as a pained hiss slid through the woman's gritted teeth, Isabela was moved to touch her wounded lover. She strode over to the bed and sat, all in one fluid motion, while gripping Aya's shoulders and pushing her onto her back gently. "You need to lie down," she demanded softly, finding the mage either felt no need for resistance, or didn't have the strength to offer it. Hawke complied immediately, falling onto her back once again, guided by Isabela's hands.

Aya's eyelids fluttered closed for a moment as her tepid flesh once again connected with damp sheets. Her lips, chapped and pale, parted slightly as she drew in a deep breath. Isabela noted the effort required of Hawke for this simple action – breathing seemed to consume far too much of her already tenuous energy. Regardless, when she exhaled, the breath came out whole and thorough, and a slightly satisfied smile quirked faintly at the corner of her mouth.

"That felt… good," she whispered, her voice hoarse as she settled comfortably into her pillow.

"Kitten, could you hand me that cup of water," the pirate asked, motioning towards the desk behind the elf with one hand, while tucking a slick tendril of blonde hair behind Aya's ear with the other. In any other situation, Hawke would untuck the hair almost immediately, feeling stubborn and self-conscious over the ears she so hated. Now, she was too tired to even protest. Isabela sighed fondly.

Taking the proffered cup from Merrill, she placed a hand behind Hawke's neck, inclining her head slightly. "I imagine you're a bit dehydrated – drink," she said, lifting the rim of the glass to the mage's lips. Again, Aya didn't say much of anything – she simply complied, taking her lover's gentle words as if they were the most natural thing in the world. In all honesty, it _did_ feel rather natural to Isabela; and to the others, too, she supposed, for the pirate's compassion towards Hawke seemed to be something they'd expected. They stood dutifully close, watching in silence as the pirate tended to her ailing Champion.

Hawke took a few much needed sips of water and winced, bringing a still quivering hand up to rub at her neck. "My throat's sore," she explained, looking up to Isabela, eyes still glassy, but holding intimations of warmth the pirate had missed before. Then, the apostate took a moment to survey her surroundings, taking into account each face with a faint smile. Each of her companions gave a small nod or wave of recognition as they met her gaze, and Hawke's smile grew, this time, almost impish. "What a crowd. Are we having a party?" After the restless night they'd fared, they hardly had the energy to respond to the quip.

"Maker, sister," Carver groaned, "your sense of humor is bad enough when you're _not_ injured. Do yourself a favor and keep the shitty jokes to a minimum." As usual, the templar's griping came with a modicum of amusement and affection saved only for his older sibling. Hawke smiled a bit wider at that, her eyes hooding tiredly with the effort.

"Afraid I have to agree with Carver on this one, Hawke," Aveline said, attempting a similar brand of amusement; however, her voice came out strained, overly concerned. Aya chuckled slightly, causing the smile on Isabela's own face to grow. She was still concerned for the apostate, of course, but humor (albeit feeble), was a good sign. If the circumstances were so terribly dire, Hawke would know, and she would have the good conscience not to make a joke about it. Rather, she'd be spending what time she suspected she had left crafting an overly sentimental farewell soliloquy for each of them. The grip the pirate had on the back of Hawke's neck relaxed a bit.

"Tough crowd, huh? You might want to quit while you're ahead, Hawke," Varric chimed in, coming to the edge of the bed to pat the mage's pallid hand. The mirthful relief sparkled in his bright eyes, hitching at the corner of his mouth – he too understood that Aya's jokes were not the sign of a woman who believed herself to be dying. "You're lucky that I tend to _embellish_ that aspect of your personality in my stories."

"My sense of humor," Hawke asked in mock incredulity, closing her eyes to adorn a sleepy smirk.

"That, and some of your more lascivious activities with a certain pirate queen. Right, Varric," Isabela asked with a wink. As she did so, Aveline, Anders, and Hawke seemed to roll their eyes in unison, the latter with a smirk, while Carver grumbled, cheeks scarlet. Grinning, the pirate ran her hand innocently from the back of Hawke's neck down the length of her arm, eliciting some rather prominent goosebumps from the mage. For once, this hadn't been Isabela's intended reaction – she'd been too frightened in the past twelve hours to think about sex, surprisingly. Nonetheless, she reveled in the heat of Aya's reaction, turning to the apostate with her eyebrows raised cockily. Hawke smiled lightly before actually blushing and turning back to face the others. _Well, she can't be feeling _too_ awful if she's thinking about what I think she is…_ Isabela thought happily, nibbling on her lower lip.

In all honesty, she'd been too preoccupied fearing for Hawke's mortality to even consider what she would do with her – or _to_ her – if she survived. It seemed pretty obvious now what Aya had in mind, and Isabela wasn't about to disagree, though she had to admit, this time would be different. Right now, she didn't want to have sex with her mage; she wanted to make love with her. After spending most of the night worrying over the tremendous emptiness that gnawed at her, just at the mere thought of losing her lover, Isabela wanted to adore her, cherish her, fulfill her – tenderly, delicately, and with more love than she herself could admit to. The thought of doing so made her stomach somersault.

As Isabela clutched Hawke's hand and ruminated over these more intimate matters, her eyes clouded with fervent desire. She hadn't even noticed when Anders had stepped forward, his hands hovering over the Champion's body to apply the soothing balm of healing magic once more. He cleared his throat then, glancing between Hawke and her pirate meekly as he asked permission to lift the sheets from her bare, wounded thigh. Aya nodded, and Isabela rolled her eyes slightly. _Seems I'm not the only person in this cabin having inappropriate thoughts about Hawke right now. _

"Hmm, looks about the same," Anders muttered, inspecting the wound. The night prior, he'd managed to stitch the soft, pale flesh together with magical threads, leaving a rather sizable and puckered pink scar to mar the apostate's thigh. Though closed and cleaned, the gash had swelled and bruised considerably, taking on an enflamed crimson tint that caused it to appear still bloody. The healer grazed the wound with his fingertips, and Hawke flinched.

"It hurts to touch," she said, clenching her teeth.

"I'm afraid I must," he said, turning back to the desk to retrieve a container of healing salve. "To keep the swelling down." However, Aya shook her head, motioning towards the pirate.

"Let Isabela do it. I'd feel more comfortable." He hesitated for a moment, pursing his lips to steal a defeated look in Isabela's direction. To the rogue, the expression was almost darkly humorous. His dejection, no matter how small, was absolutely foolish. Aya had never really been attracted to Anders, not even in the beginning. But after what he'd done to the chantry _and_ to her, he didn't even have a semblance of a chance at swaying her affections.

"Okay," he sighed. "Well, how much longer do you want me to stick around?" Hawke shrugged, taking the salve from Anders and placing it on the bed beside her.

"How much longer do you need to?"

"A week." Aya laughed almost bitterly, and Isabela had to contain a small smirk. If Anders managed to retain even the slightest hint of an ego after this whole ordeal, she'd be surprised.

"I don't think so. I'll be up on my feet in less time than that."

"Are you so sure about that," Carver interjected, looking down at his sister with the same tentative, concerned eyes as Aveline. Aya waved him off.

"I know when I'm pushing myself too hard. I could get myself out of this bed right now if I really wanted to. It'd be difficult, but I could do it. A week from now I'll be back to that valiant hero bull." Carver nodded, choosing not to argue with his sister in her weakened condition. Then, she turned back to Anders, "Give it another day or two, in case of any… unexpected setbacks. After that," she paused for a moment, looking her old friend sternly in the face. "Those things I said yesterday… it wasn't just the spur of the moment. I expect you to disappear after this, Anders." The healer gulped slightly before nodding and swiftly exiting the room.

A somewhat uncomfortable silence fell thickly upon the companions until Fenris, of all people, who had previously been leaning against the far wall of the cabin, said, "Well, that's awkward." The comment was so uncharacteristic that the tightness in Hawke's jaw broke, and she began laughing.

"Yeah, no kidding…" Aya said, leaning back into the pillows with a sigh. "I have to say though, the rest of you I'm very happy to see. Nobody else was injured too bad, were they?" Her eyes scanned the room, assessing each of her friends briefly for injuries. Every one of them had, of course, walked away from the Gallows with a moderate amount of cuts and bruises; but aside from Aya's injuries, the worst any one of them had sustained was a sprained ankle, which Merrill now stood upon gingerly.

"Everyone is fine, Hawke. You've no need to worry about us," Aveline said reassuringly.

"Yeah, worry about yourself for once, would ya?"

"I'm afraid I'm not _very_ good at that, Varric… but I suppose it's about time I try." Aya chuckled, picking up the salve from the bed and handing it to Isabela. "We should probably get that applied." The Rivaini nodded, and Hawke turned back to her other companions. "The five of you have to try not to look so grave though, okay? What happened was scary, and I'd be lying if I said I was feeling spectacular right not. But I _would_ know if I was going to die. I can assure you, I'm not." Her friends nodded, causing the apostate's face to soften. "I really appreciate you all sticking around to see me through this though. More than you could ever understand. But, uh… if you don't mind, I'd like a few minutes alone with Isabela."

The others nodded in compliance, filing out of the room immediately. The last to linger behind was Carver, who leaned down to place a kiss softly on top of his sister's head before turning to the pirate.

"Isabela… go easy on her, would you?" The directness of his question made the rogue want to laugh in his face, but she bit her tongue. He'd made the comment out of concern.

Aya, on the other hand, had no problem replying snidely. "Why, little brother, would this be you giving us your approval? _Permission_ even?" The younger Hawke blushed once more, this time wearing a scowl. Now Isabela really did laugh.

"No, I, uh," he stammered. "I just know how _this one_ is, alright?" He jabbed a thumb in the pirate's direction, and Hawke grinned.

"Well, _I, uh,_" Isabela mocked playfully, "will be extra _gentle_ when I ravish your sister later. Satisfied?" The young man's cheeks turned a much deeper shade of red. He seemed suddenly incapable of looking either woman in the eyes, especially his sister.

"For Maker's sake," he muttered, smacking himself on the forehead before turning on his heel and striding from the cabin. _"Incorrigible… the both of you." _Hawke was giggling helplessly now. She did love her brother – very much, in fact – but the jokes came so easily at his expense, they simply couldn't be ignored.

Isabela grinned joyously now, too; more so at Hawke's easy smile than Carver's embarrassment (though that, too, was terribly amusing). She uncapped the salve and was about to dip her fingers into the container when Hawke grabbed her wrist.

"Wait," Aya said gently, lovingly. The giggles had escaped her, and in their place now was an affection that made Isabela's heart skip a beat. It occurred to the pirate that that exact tone of voice, coupled with the near gossamer softness of her lover's eyes, was just one of the things she had _missed_ in the past twelve hours. She was paralyzed by the simultaneous firmness and fragility of it. "Come here." Aya tugged at Isabela's arm with such a mellifluous entreaty that she didn't think she could've stopped her body from abiding if she'd tried.

As the pirate leaned forward cautiously over Aya's frame, the mage brought a hand swiftly to the back of Isabela's head, threading her fingers through dark, silky hair. She pulled the rogue's mouth to hers with more strength than she herself thought she'd possessed at the time. When their lips collided, an effervescent shock coursed through both women, each groaning – nearly whimpering – at the unwavering need of it. After spending the entire night thinking she may never taste this kiss again, the feel of it melted Isabela completely. Heat practically exploded inside of her body, between them, galvanizing a burgeoning hunger they hadn't had the time or comfort to acknowledge up until this moment.

It took all of her strength to break the kiss and pull away from Hawke, and she only did so because she was concerned for the woman's already stilted oxygen intake. Still, when she did break away, she could only bring herself to pull her lips but a hair's breadth from Aya's, so that their heavy breathing mingled together, warm and sweet.

"I've been waiting for that since the moment I awoke," Aya said breathlessly, caressing Isabela's cheek. "I was hoping you would pounce on me the moment you walked through the door, since I didn't have the energy to do the same to you." The pirate chuckled, planting small, fluttering kisses upon Hawke's cheeks, nose, and forehead. She could feel the mage smiling into the hollow of her neck as she did so.

"I wanted to. But I thought it might bother you that everyone else was around to watch." Aya shook her head, wrapping her arms desperately around her lover in a tight embrace.

Whispering into the rogue's ear, she said, _"There was… a point last night when I didn't think I'd get this chance again. I thought I was a goner."_

Isabela pulled back instantly, just enough to look Aya hard in the eyes. They were glinting with a damp kind of fear that felt all too familiar. "But you weren't. And you're not. You're a _survivor._"

Hawke shook her head, the words spilling forth quicker now, with more urgency. She clung to Isabela closely. "The pain… it was so awful, Isabela. Like I can't explain. And I… I feel guilty admitting it, but I wanted to give up. My body begged for it. But I kept seeing you in my mind, and-" The pirate cut her off, returning the embrace tighter than before – perhaps too tightly, considering Aya's condition – and buried her face in the apostate's neck. She was biting back tears now, thinking she'd cried _entirely_ too much in the past day.

Hawke concluded her thought, however; quieter now, more calmly. "You'd think it would've been easy to give in. But then I heard you call out my name, and I knew it would be impossible. And for good reason. Because this," she squeezed Isabela firmly, to emphasize her point, "I would endure that pain a thousand times over to feel this just once more." A tear fell unbidden from the pirate's clenched eyes, rolling tepidly down Aya's neck. Feeling this, the apostate whispered, _"All the suffering in the world is inconsequential compared to the way I feel when you're in my arms."_

_Damn this woman, _Isabela thought, her heart swelling immeasurably. _When she says things like this, it's just too much. _Coming from anyone else, she would've despised such a proclamation. She would've thought it foolish, impractical, exaggerated. But out of Aya's mouth, it became an immutable truth. And she adored every sweet, sincere syllable of it.

The pirate lifted her head to capture Hawke's lips in the most ardent kiss she could muster. Between them, the taste of salt, the feel of wetness coated them anonymously – from whose eyes it had originated, she was unsure – both probably. Her hand trembled when it held the mage's cheek warmly; however, the words she spoke were true and unyielding.

"I love you, Aya. I will always love you."

* * *

It had been two weeks since both Meredith and the chantry had fallen. Kirkwall was still reeling with shock, recovering from the incredible traumas both physical and mental. The status of mages within the city had become vague and confusing – at times they were more feared than ever before, and at others, they were accepted and remotely _respected _in a most baffling way. The circle was still in place, held together loosely; however, the templars, too, were now viewed with more disdain than they had been in less chaotic times. And with that obvious resentment came a small liberation on the part of mages that even Anders would have been infinitely satisfied by.

In her own recovery, Hawke regarded Kirkwall's affairs with forced indifference. She wanted very badly not to care, not to feel the urge to reach out and help, but every one of her friends knew her better than that. Apathy was against her truest nature. She was tired of the city in a way that had been expected; nonetheless, she still felt a near instinctual urge to save it, to help rebuild. If not for its leaders – politicians, nobles, and authoritarians alike – then only for its common people, the people she felt the greatest kinship with.

She was ready to leave though. Isabela knew this.

Hawke would always be Kirkwall's Champion. If only proverbially, she would remain the moral compass that the City of Chains had needed in its darkest hour, the paragon the people had clung fearfully to. But at this point in her life, she was more than happy to relinquish the duties that this persona had imposed upon her. She was ready to stop being a hero – ready to be, for the first time in many years, Aya Hawke, and nothing more.

Stepping down had been somewhat bittersweet. She'd never made any sort of public resignation as Champion, never met with any of Kirkwall's leaders – she was done with those mind-numbing meetings, the painful business of small talk and political propriety. Still, it had been expected. Maybe not by the common people, but by the templars. Cullen had made attempts to meet with Hawke to discuss this issue, but she had politely declined every time. She'd written him a letter upon his final request, explaining that she harbored no ill feelings towards him. She simply no longer wished to associate with Kirkwall's authority. She was leaving; she was _done._

As she stood now before the _Siren's Call_, her most valued possessions and daily necessities already stowed upon the ship, she felt at peace. She smiled lazily as the salty breeze tousled her hair – the thought of being enveloped by that soothing breeze every day made her feel at ease. It would take some getting used to, of course, living on a ship, but she looked forward to it. If truth be told, the estate was no longer home to her, anyway. Home was wherever Isabela was; Isabela's home was the sea. It was only natural.

The pirate watched Aya from her vantage point on the deck. Hawke was stalling at the boarding ramp, conversing with Aveline, Donnic, and Carver. Varric was being led around by an exuberant Merrill, who was still bursting ecstatically at the prospect of joining Isabela and Aya on their "grand adventure," as she called it. Fenris had said his goodbyes back at the estate, which was now left under the devoted care of Bodahn and Sandal, and in the possession of Carver. Isabela imagined he wouldn't be spending a lot of time there, as his place of residence remained in the templars' barracks; but Aya had reasoned that in a few years' time he may want to settle down and start a family. When that time came, she'd be happy to know that the next generation of Hawkes would be born into the same household their mother had been born into. Carver didn't seem very eager to "start a family," as his sister had suggested, but he was grateful for the gesture, nonetheless.

They should've set sail at least ten minutes ago now, but remained berthed for the mage's sake. Isabela was aware that this would be the hardest part for Hawke – saying goodbye to her brother and Aveline, who was, for all intents and purposes, her sister. Sighing, the pirate suspected it would be much easier for Aya if she were at her side right now, supporting her. At this thought, she sent out the order for her crew to ready for departure, gathered up Merrill and Varric, and made her way down onto the docks to join Hawke. Sliding in beside her, she wove her fingers through Aya's. The apostate didn't look at her, as she was busy talking to Carver, but she smiled at the contact.

When she found a brief opening in the conversation, Isabela said, "Not to interrupt, or rush you, but we ought to be heading out soon. The crew is ready to set sail at my word." Hawke turned back to her and nodded, smiling. Hearing this, Aveline and Carver appeared to stand up just a little bit straighter. It seemed to the rogue that they were far more reluctant over Hawke's leaving than she was.

"Well," Aya said quietly, her tone dipping into a sadder cadence as she drew out the word.

"Yes. Well…" Carver replied, attempting sarcasm, but sounding much the same as his sister.

"Make sure you write, Hawke. As often as possible. I need to be sure you're staying out of trouble." Aya stared amusedly at the stern finger the Guard Captain pointed in her direction and rolled her eyes.

"I will – write, I mean. It's a pirate's life for me now. Trouble is expected." Aya and Isabela grinned together as Aveline shook her head, trying a little too hard to seem reproachful. "I'll be safe though, I _promise. _Now will you stop wagging your finger in my face? I've only got a few minutes left here."

"Sorry… force of habit." With that, the guardswoman stepped forward, her bow knitting together as she pulled Hawke into a fierce hug. It was fairly obvious to everyone that Aveline _did_ love her best friend, but she rarely showed it in displays such as this. However, this hug was genuine, and Aya returned it as, Isabela imagined, she would return the gesture to Bethany, her true sister. When they pulled apart, Aveline kept her hands firmly upon Hawke's shoulders and said, "Thank you, Hawke, for everything you have done for me these past seven years. I really will miss you."

"I could say the same to you, Aveline. I couldn't have asked for a better friend when I came to this city." They smiled at each other briefly before breaking apart. Hawke turned to say farewell to Donnic, and Aveline turned her uncharacteristically kind gaze upon Isabela. They were uncomfortable for a few moments, as if looking at each other in a way without distaste would be the same thing as admitting they actually _were_ fond of each other (which neither woman was ready to admit freely).

"Oh, come on, Big Girl. Don't tell me you've gone soft now."

"Just shut up, whore." Aveline leaned forward and hugged the pirate. It was, at first, awkward; but Isabela hugged back, regardless, and meant it. When they broke the hug, they found Carver, Donnic, and Aya (especially Aya) staring at them with a great deal of amusement. Hawke looked ready to issue some sort of wry comment, but Aveline quashed her.

"No commentary necessary, Hawke."

"Right, of course, Captain," she said, still smirking.

Then came the most difficult goodbye of all. When Aya turned to face her little brother, her smile faltered just slightly. They'd spent so much time resenting each other since they'd come to Kirkwall – right now, it seemed like a complete and utter waste. In truth, they were more alike than they'd ever admit: same sense of humor, same tremendous sense of honor, same undeniable need to protect those that they loved. And even though they each favored a different side of their shared gene pool, there was so much about their countenance that looked and _felt_ the same. For instance, neither was frowning right now, but the sadness between them, the reluctance to say goodbye, was recognizable in their tight expressions.

"So, this is it, huh?"

"I guess…" Aya replied, staring down at her feet. "You know I'll be back though. I can't say when, or how often, but I _will_ be seeing you."

"Right," Carver said quickly, nodding. "And… don't go sending Aveline any letters without sending me some, too."

"Of course."

"If you don't, I'll find out. And then I'll be forced to kick your ass the next time I see you."

"Kick _my_ ass?" Hawke's eyes sparkled impishly.

"Yeah. Figure I'll just flick you in those big dopey ears and throw mud at you. That _always_ worked when we were kids." The apostate chuckled lightly, eliciting a wide grin from Carver.

"Yeah, it did, didn't it…" As her voice trailed off, she began staring intently into the cobblestones once more. After a few moments, the templar sighed, lifting Aya's chin with two calloused fingers.

"I want you to enjoy yourself out there, sister. You've been taking care of other people for a long time. I suppose I didn't always act very grateful for it, but I was. _I am._ Now I think you deserve to just… take care of yourself. Live your _own_ life."

"I will. And you do the same. You're good at what you do, Carver – protecting people." Her smile grew wistful for a moment. "You know, Kirkwall is in need of a new hero. Perhaps you should take up the mantle." Carver seemed to consider the idea, grinning.

"That's true…"

"I'm sure Varric would be happy to spread word of how valiant and dashing you are." The younger Hawke stared thoughtfully into the distance for a moment before staring back at Aya, shaking his head.

"I don't need to be a hero. I'm proud of who I am – a templar, a Hawke. That's good enough for me." It was this admission that Isabela felt sure would cause tears to spill forth from the mage's eyes. She could see them glistening behind those stunning emeralds; but Hawke held them back in her happiness. Instead of crying, she embraced her baby brother tightly, his chin, shadowed with raven colored scruff, resting atop her blonde head. Though her face was buried in his chest, the pirate knew she was smiling.

"I love you, Carver," she said softly, her voice muffled.

"Love you too, sister…" He turned his gaze to Isabela, looking sternly at her. "Be good to my sister, Isabela. Keep her safe."

The rogue wanted to make a sarcastic joke, but couldn't. Instead, she spoke earnestly. "You don't need to worry about that, Carver. I will."

"Good." He kissed Aya on top of the head before pulling away, clearing his throat. "Well, uh, I guess you need to get going, huh?"

"Yes, we do," Isabela replied, looking at Hawke. The woman nodded back at her. She could now see in the mage's eyes that she was ready.

* * *

Aveline, Donnic, Varric, and Carver had remained standing at the docks until the _Siren's Call_ had drifted so far from shore that they were no longer visible. Hawke watched them for as long as she could, leaning her elbows over the deck railing. Isabela had been running to and fro across the ship, handing out orders, making sure nothing malfunctioned and that her new crew were working as seamlessly as she'd expected. Among Kirkwall's riff raff, and by frequenting the shops and taverns along port, she truly had found a formidable group of people to serve under her. Once everything was settled and she'd checked in on each of them at least twice, she decided it was time to rejoin Hawke on deck and make sure that _she_ was settling in just as well.

As the rogue passed under the crow's nest she stopped, calling up to Merrill, who had recently declared this spot her most favorite part of the ship. Right now, she was up there reading one of the many magic tomes she'd carried onboard with her. There were so many of those ancient books that the bulk of them now had to be stored in the more spacious captain's cabin. Hawke was pleased with this, explaining that she would benefit from this reading material, as well. Now that she had some free time on her hands, and no longer had a healer at her beck and call, she'd resolved to begin studying the art of healing magic – at least the basics. Merrill was no healer, but had acquired some books on the subject, and assured Hawke she'd be able to glean some rather exceptional spells from them.

"Hey! Kitten!" Merrill peeked her large mossy eyes over the edge of the crow's nest, waving and smiling down at her dear friend. "How's it going up there?"

"Oh, fantastic, Bela," she called enthusiastically. "It's wonderful up here!"

"Good," Isabela chuckled, "enjoy it!" Now positive that the elf was well within her element, the captain continued sauntering over towards Hawke. Even from a distance, she could see small hints of sadness in the mage's features, as was expected; but, overall, Kirkwall's former Champion looked… content. Isabela grinned happily, walking up behind the woman and snaking her arms around her waist. Aya immediately eased back into the pirate's body, sighing cheerfully.

"So," Isabela inquired softly, nuzzling her nose into Hawke's blonde tresses.

"Hmm?"

"How does it feel so far, being out here on the open water?" Aya thought for a moment, choosing the right word before answering.

"Like being free." Isabela squeezed her tighter, breathing into her lover's ear.

"That's because you are."

"I don't know that I've ever really been free before," Hawke thought aloud, turning her head back so that could look Isabela in the eyes. "But… I could definitely get used to this."

"Yeah," the Rivaini asked, her voice joyously soft.

"Yeah," Hawke replied, turning back to rest comfortably in her lover's arms. "Definitely."

"That's good," Isabela said softly, staring off at the same horizon, the same immensely bright sun that seemed so captivating to the apostate. It felt wonderful to be here, sharing this with her – the sights, smells, and sensations that the rogue had grown to adore so ardently over the course of her life. She realized that now, to have Aya by her side, experiencing the same wonder, made it more beautiful than she could have possibly imagined. "Because I don't plan on letting you go anytime soon." Leaning down, she planted a warm kiss in the crook of Hawke's neck, drinking in her soft scent as though imbibing a fine liquor. How wonderful it would be to have that gentle fragrance clinging to her bed sheets, her pillows, her own skin for… well, however long they both pleased. She imagined it would be a long, long time.

"Not anytime soon, huh," Aya asked with a subtle, melodic chuckle. "And what about after that?" The mage leaned back again to press her lips against Isabela's cheek. The pirate smiled.

"Okay, so… I may have meant _'not ever'_." Letting her forehead rest against Isabela's temple, Hawke closed her eyes.

"That sounds more like it."

* * *

**I'm pretty sure I suck at writing endings. At any rate, I don't like writing them. As far as this one goes... much fluffiness, I know. I'm a hopeless romantic so... couldn't resist.**

Like I've said before, I do plan on writing a sequel to this in the near future, and perhaps a few one shots, as well. I enjoy Isabela's character too much not to continue writing her : )

**As always, I ask you to please review - let me know if you cared for the ending/how you enjoyed the story as a whole!**

Thanks a bunch!


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